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BY 

ARTHUR    G.    BENSON 

FELLOW  OF  MAGDALENE  COLLEGE 
CAMBRIDGE 

THE  UPTON    LETTERS 

FROM  A  COLLEGE 
WINDOW 

BESIDE  STILL  WATERS 

THE  ALTAR  FIRE 

THE     SCHOOLMASTER 

AT  LARGE 

THE  SILENT  ISLE 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

LEAVES  OF  THE  TREE 

CHILD  OF  THE  DAWN 

PAUL  THE  MINSTREL 

THY    ROD    AND    THY 
STAFF 

ALONG  THE  ROAD 


'  ALONG  THE  ROAD 


By 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 

M 
Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 


Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few/ 


G.   P.   PUTNAH'S  SONS 

NCW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
tTbefcnicfierbocfter  presd 

1913 


B4-n 


Copyright,  19 13 

BY 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 


Ube  IftnfclJerbocltec  Uteee,  Hew  Sorft 


PREFACE 

I  THINK  it  is  often  a  pity  to  collect  and  repub- 
lish contributions  to  periodical  literature,  and 
authors  are  apt  to  feel  too  tenderly,  with  a  sort 
of  fatherly  regard,  about  the  little  crops  of  their 
own  minds.  Articles  written  for  journals  are  apt, 
of  course,  to  be  topiqal  and  occasional  things, 
composed  very  often,  by  the  necessity  of  the 
case,  rapidly  and  hurriedly,  on  some  momentary 
subject.  They  are  then  little  more  than  impro- 
visations, spun  out  of  impromptu  materials,  and 
there  has  been  no  time  for  them  to  take  shape  in 
the  writer's  mind. 

But  this  does  not  apply  to  all  such  writing, 
and  I  can  honestly  say  that  it  does  not  apply  to 
the  majority  of  the  little  essays  which  I  have 
contributed  week  by  week  to  the  Church  Family 
Xewspaper,  under  the  heading  of  Along  the  Road, 
I  have  for  a  long  time  had  a  good  many  articles 
in  stock,  and  even  in  proof,  so  that  I  have  not 
written  from  hand  to  mouth.  The  majority  of 
them  are  simply  little  essays,  composed  delib- 
erately and  carefully  on  subjects  which  occupied 
my  mind;  and  I  have  had  so  many  letters  from 
unknown  correspondents  about  these  articles,  that 

28l5()4 


iv  Preface 

I  think  that  some  of  my  readers  may  like  to  have 
a  selection  of  them  in  a  more  permanent  form. 
I  have  omitted  all  articles  which  have  been  writ- 
ten to  order  on  some  topic  of  the  day,  and  all 
of  a  purely  controversial  type,  such  as  I  have  had 
from  time  to  time  to  write,  not  very  willingly; 
and  all  those  which  have  aroused,  however  unin- 
tentionally, the  susceptibilities  of  readers.  I  be- 
gan to  write  the  series  in  a  time  of  considerable 
depression,  when  I  was  recovering  from  a  long 
illness,  and  when  I  w^as  afraid  that  I  might  be 
unequal  to  the  task  of  regular  composition;  and 
though  I  tried  to  write  cheerfully,  the  shadow  of 
ill-health  fell  over  some  of  the  earlier  ones — and 
these  I  have  omitted. 

Let  me  say  shortly  what  I  have  been  aiming  at 
in  the  entire  series.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  we 
Englishmen  often  suffer  from  is  a  want  of  interest 
in  ideas.  I  think  that  as  a  race  we  have  some 
very  fine  qualities, — a  sturdy  and  kindly  common- 
sense,  first  of  all,  which  permits  us  to  view  things 
justly  and  reasonably,  and  keeps  us  both  from 
undue  excitement  and  unbalanced  depression,  I 
believe  that  we  are  peaceable,  orderly,  and  la- 
borious; and  we  have  a  real  modesty,  which 
prevents  us  from  dwelling  too  much  on  our 
achievements  and  performances,  and  disposes  us 
not  to  be  careful  to  claim  credit  for  what  we  do. 
And  I  think,  too,  that  we  try  to  live  by  principle 
rather  than  impulsively. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  are  conventional  and 


Preface  v 

uuintelligeut,  and  think  far  too  much  of  wealth 
and  position;  we  are  averse  to  analysis  and 
speculation  and  experiments.  We  take  certain 
rather  doubtful  things  for  granted,  and  dislike 
originality  and  enthusiasm.  It  seems  to  me  that 
we  do  not  think  enough  about  our  daily  life,  and 
do  not  ask  ourselves  enough  why-  we  believe 
things,  or  even  if  we  do  really  believe  them.  In 
moral  matters  we  are  really  rather  fatalistic,  we 
trust  instinct  more  than  reason,  and  do  not  suf- 
ficiently regard  the  power  we  have,  within  certain 
limits,  to  change  ourselves.  We  are  apt  to  make 
up  our  minds  about  many  matters  early  in  life, 
and  we  take  a  foolish  pride  in  what  we  call  con- 
sistency, which  often  means  little  more  than  a 
habit  of  rejecting  all  arguments  and  all  evidence 
which  tell  against  our  prejudices.  We  have,  in 
fact,  very  little  flexibility  of  mind.  Again,  I 
think  that  we  are  apt  to  neglect  the  wonderful 
treasure  of  ancient  and  beautiful  associations 
which  have  accumulated  in  a  land  that  has  for 
so  long  been  uninvaded,  and  where  we  have  con- 
sequently been  able  to  develop  our  own  institu- 
tions without  interruption.  I  am  often  amazed, 
as  I  explore  England,  to  find  hamlet  after  hamlet 
with  a  fine  church,  an  old  manorial  house,  many 
graceful  dwellings,  and  obviously  with  a  clear  and 
delicate  history  of  its  own,  if  only  it  were  re- 
corded !  All  that  we  are  apt  to  take  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  neglect  in  a  dull  and  careless  way, 
as  if  it  were  not  worth  notice. 


vi  Preface 

So  I  have  had  these  two  aims  very  firmly  in 
view — to  try  in  the  first  place  to  interest  readers 
in  little  problems  of  life  and  character,  all  the 
clash  and  interplay  of  human  qualities,  so  fresh, 
so  unaccountable,  so  marvellously  interesting, 
which  spring  out  of  our  daily  relations  with  other 
human  beings.  The  longer  I  live,  the  more  won- 
derful every  day  appears  to  me  the  infinite  com- 
plexity and  beautA^  of  human  intercourse,  and  the 
sense  that  some  very  great  and  noble  problem  is 
being  worked  out  by  slow  gradations  and  with 
infinite  delay.  Civilisation  has  this  potent  effect, 
that  it  does  away  with  isolation  and  hostility; 
it  makes  men  and  women  feel  that  they  cannot 
guard  themselves  apart  from  others,  or  follow 
selfishly  their  own  designs,  but  that  we  are  all 
deeply  dependent  on  each  other  both  for  en- 
couragement and  help;  that  our  smallest  actions 
and  our  lightest  thoughts  can  and  must  affect 
other  lives,  and  that  good  and  evil  alike  must 
go  on  seeding  and  flowering,  till  we  are  perfect 
in  patience  and  in  love;  and  I  have  been  struck, 
too,  the  more  I  have  known  of  men,  to  find  how 
often  they  are  conscious,'  in  a  dim  and  uncertain 
way,  of  high  and  beautiful  ideals,  which  they 
yet  seem  pathetically  unable  to  work  out,  in- 
capable of  applying  to  the  facts  of  life,  though 
sorrowfully  aware  that  they  are  not  making  the 
best  either  of  life  or  of  themselves.  This  has 
given  me  increasingly  the  sense  of  a  very  wonder- 
ful and  far-off  future  for  mankind, — for  all  that 


Preface  vii 

live  and  strive,  hope  and  sorrow, — not  only  upon 
earth,  but  beyond  the  veil  of  mortality.  That 
future,  I  believe  with  all  my  soul,  is  a  future  of 
joy,  because  joy  is  the  native  air  of  the  spirit, 
which  cannot  acquiesce  in  sorrow  and  pain, 
though  it  can  bear  them,  if  it  believes  that  they 
are  meant  ultimately  to  minister  to  joy  and 
peace.  The  more  that  we  study  ourselves  and 
others,  the  more  rich  and  complex  does  the  pos- 
sibility appear;  and  the  more  that  we  can  keep 
our  hearts  on  the  permanent  and  the  spiritual, 
and  put  what  is  temporary  and  material  in  its 
right  place,  the  better  for  us.  The  world  seems 
often  full  of  misdirected  feeling,  grief,  and  dis- 
appointment over  things  which  are  not  worth  the 
emotion,  bitter  strife  over  paltry  causes,  stubborn 
prejudices,  and  worst  of  all  a  harsh  belief  that 
if  i)eople  will  not  try  to  be  happy  in  what  we 
happen  to  consider  the  right  way,  they  had  better 
not  be  happy  at  all.  That  is  in  my  belief  the 
worst  fault  of  the  English  character,  the  hard 
insistence  on  our  own  fancies  and  theories,  the 
radical  lack  of  sympathy  and  mutual  understand- 
ing; so  I  have  tried  my  hand  at  attempting  to 
explain  men  and  women  to  themselves  and  others, 
and  ju'essing  on  my  readers,  as  far  as  I  could,  the 
supreme  worth  of  conciliation,  appreciation,  toler- 
ance, and  brotherly  love.  If  I  could  but  say  or 
express  how  infinitely  I  desire  that!  T  do  not 
at  all  recommend  a  weak  abandonment  of  our 
own  cherished  beliefs;  but  it  is  possible  to  hold 


viii  Preface 

a  view  firmly  and  courageously,  as  the  best  for 
oneself,  without  attempting  to  contemn  and  dis- 
credit the  sincere  beliefs  of  others. 

And  secondly,  I  have  tried  to  awaken  the  in- 
terest, which  we  can  find,  if  we  only  look  for  it, 
in  common  and  ordinary  things,  in  the  places  we 
see,  in  the  words  which  we  hear  read  week  by 
week,  in  the  simple  experiences  of  life.  One  of 
the  worst  foes  of  all  spiritual  and  mental  energy 
is  the  dulness  that  creeps  over  hard-working  peo- 
ple, the  stolid  comfortable  acquiescence  in  daily 
grubbiness,  the  apathy  which  sees  the  beautiful 
lights  of  life  going  out  one  by  one  without  an 
attempt  to  rekindle  them.  One  sees  and  hears 
things  so  dully  and  incuriously;  and  yet  if  one 
sets  oneself  to  say  "  What  does  that  mean?  What 
lies  behind  that?  How  does  it  come  to  exist  so?  " 
Ave  find  a  whole  wealth  of  striking  and  tender 
associations,  reaching  far  back  into  the  past,  and 
all  most  gently  bound  up  with  what  we  are. 

Ideas  and  associations !  Those  are  the  best  and 
dearest  part  of  life,  next  to  human  relations.  And 
they  are  not  outside  of  our  reach.  We  only,  many 
of  us,  require  to  be  taught  how  to  begin,  what 
sort  of  questions  to  ask  ourselves,  what  little  ex- 
periments in  thought  and  feeling  we  can  try. 
That  has  been  the  simple  task  I  have  set  before 
me,  and  no  one  can  wish  more  heartily  than  I 
do,,  that  it  had  been  better  fulfilled.  Because,  as 
T  have  said,  I  am  daily  more  amazed  and  de- 
lighted at  the  wonderful  and  incommunicable  in- 


Preface  ix 

terest  and  beauty  of  life,  the  secrets  that  it  holds, 
the  problems — some  of  them  sad  enon<!;h — that  it 
offers,  and  the  marvellous  hope  in  the  mighty 
purposes  of  God  that  lie  behind  it  all.  The 
House  of  Life  in  which  we  abide,  in  the  days 
of  our  pilgrimage,  can  be  made,  with  so  little  care 
and  trouble,  into  a  great  and  gracious  place;  as 
the  old  wise  writer  said,  "  Through  wisdom  is  an 
house  builded,  and  by  understanding  it  is  estab- 
lished, and  by  knowledge  shall  the  chambers  be 
filled  with  all  precious  and  pleasant  riches!" 

A.  C.  B. 


The  Old  Lodge, 

Magdalene  College,  Cambridge, 

Aug.  5,  1912. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Old  England 1 

An  Autumn  Landscape 9 

St.   Govan's 17 

A  Ruined  House 23 

St.  Anthony-in-the-Fells 29 

Antiquities  and  Amenities 34 

Addington 42 

Brent  Knoll 50 

Mr.  Gladstone 56 

Robert  Browning •        .    65 

Newman 72 

Archippus 82 

Keats 90 

Roddy 96  """^ 

The  Face  of  Death 101 

The  Aweto 109         ;  i 

The  Old  Family  Nurse llP)jn2ll^ 


The  Anglican  Clergy 124 

xi 


t 


xii  Contents 

PAGE 

Compulsory  Greek 1^3^ 

Gambling 140 

Hymns 147 

Preachers  and  Preaching 156 

Art  and  Life 162^ 

Sympathy  . 172 

'    Jealousy 179 

Home  Truths 188 

^^"Superstition .        .  195 

^Better-Writing 204 

,^x  Vulgarity 213 

Sincerity 221 

.  yJlesolutions ,  229    * 

Biography  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  235 

Gossip 243^ 

^^^.^-t^actfulness         ........  248 

On  Finding  One's  Level 252 

The  Inner  Life 259 

p'*'^;^  Being  Shocked     .        .        ,        .        .        .        .  269    y 

Homely  Beauty 276 

Brain  Waves 285 

Forgiveness 292 

— ~^^V»elf-Pity 300 


Contents  xiii 

PAGE 

Bells 309 

Starlings 315 

Mottoes 323 

On  Being  Interrupted 330 

Democracy 338 

Absent-Mindedness 345^ 

Peace 352 

y^  Conversation 359 

Work  and  Play 367 

^^iveliness 373  (, 

Pride 380 

Allegories 387 

Publicity  and  Privacy 394 

Experience 402 

Resignation 410 

The  Wind 417   --* 

The  Use  of  Poetry 423 

War 430 

i  On  Making  Friends 439 

^The  Younger  Generation 446  "jf 

^xi^eading 455  ^ 


Along  the  Road 


OLD  ENGLAND 

We  hear  much  said  nowadays  about  the  Empire, 
and  said  wisely  and  bravely,  too ;  and  we  are  told 
to  hold  out  hands  of  brotherhood,  and  to  keep 
our  hearts  warm  towards  our  unknown  friends 
and  fellow-citizens  over  the  sea,  and  to  be  proud 
of  the  great  outward-beating  wave  of  English  life 
and  talk  and  thought  which  surges  over  the  globe. 
And,  indeed,  England  may  well  rejoice  in  the 
old  blessing  of  the  Psalms  that  she  is  truly  a 
joyful  mother  of  children;  though  I  sometimes 
wish  that  it  were  all  done  and  said  a  Jittle  less 
militantly,  and  that  the  happy  family  would  think 
and  talk  a  little  less  of  crowding  out  and  keeping 
in  their  corners  the  other  children  who  have  their 
playground  here,  too,  by  the  far-off  purpose  of 
God. 

But  while  we  may  wholesomely  exult  in  the 
generous  pulse  of  English  blood  which  thrills  far 
and  wide  through  the  earth,  replenishing  and 


Along  the  Road 


subduing  it,  we  may  sometimes  wisely  turn  our 
thoughts  homewards  and  inwards  and  backwards, 
to  the  wonderful  currents  of  history  and  tradition 
that  have  moulded  our  island  race  and  made  us 
what  we  are.  We  are  apt  to  forget,  we  town- 
dwellers,  what  an  incomparable  treasure  of  old 
and  beautiful  things  is  hidden  in  our  land,  in 
village  and  hamlet,  in  the  forest  clearings,  and 
the  remote  valleys  and  the  foldings  of  the  hills. 
If  one  explores  a  bit  of  quiet  England,  and  finds 
leisure  to  look  about  for  ruined  castles  and 
priories,  for  old  houses  and  nestling  churches, 
one  comes  to  realise  what  long,  quiet  spaces  of 
homely  life  have  been  lived  century  by  century, 
in  days  before  railways  tied  town  to  town,  and 
before  the  humblest  labourer  could  read  day  by 
day,  as  he  can  now  in  the  newspaper,  the  whole 
pageant  of  the  life  which  the  world  has  been 
living  the  day  before. 

It  is  a  mistake  perhaps  to  live  too  much  in 
the  past;  one  invests  it  all  in  the  mind  with  a 
romantic,  golden  haze;  one  forgets  its  miseries 
and  its  cruelties,  and  one  comes  to  sorrow  feebly 
over  the  ills  about  one,  as  though  they  were  newly- 
risen  and  fresh-engendered  evils;  as  if  the  old 
daj's  were  all  full  of  peace  and  quiet  and  whole- 
some labour;  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  con- 
ditions of  life  for  the  mass  of  the  population  are 
infinitely  brighter,  more  decent,  more  sensible, 
more  comfortable  than  they  used  to  be,  and  the 
minds  of  far  more  men  are  bent  on  helping  and 


Old  England  3 

cleansing  and  lifting  up  the  souls  and  bodies  of 
those  who  have  fallen  by  the  wayside,  and  find 
the  great  wheels  of  life  running  too  tyrannously 
past  them. 

But  the  old  life  had  a  beauty  and  a  stillness 
of  its  own,  for  all  that,  when  there  was  less 
motion  and  stir,  less  sound  and  foam;  there  was 
less  arranging  how  to  live,  and  more  acceptance 
of  life.  Men  whose  range  was  more  limited,  con- 
centrated, no  doubt,  a  stronger  emotion  on  just 
the  touches  of  grandeur  and  dignity  and  beauty 
that  the  circle  of  the  hills  enfolded ;  and  the  sight, 
as  one  sees  it,  if  one  wanders  afield  day  by  dayj 
of  the  beautiful  churches  and  manor-houses,  even 
of  the  very  cottages  and  barns,  gives  the  feeling 
that  men  in  the  old  days  had  a  stronger  sense 
of  the  fine  simplicities  and  even  statelinesses  of 
life,  when  they  built  with  roof -tile  and  gable,  with 
mullion  and  timber-tie,  than  when  they  bring 
slate  and  yellow  brick  in  a  straw-packed  truck, 
and  run  up  a  corrugated  iron  barn  in  the  corner 
of  the  high-walled  byre. 

Here  is  a  little  picture  of  what  I  saw  one  day 
not  long  ago,  as  I  traced  the  green  valley  of  the 
Windrush  through  the  bare  Cotswold  hills.  The 
Windrush  is  as  sweet  a  stream  as  its  airy,  ruffled 
name  suggests,  full  of  clear  pools  and  swift  wind- 
ings, with  its  long,  swaying  weeds,  and  bubbling 
weirs,  as  it  runs  among  level  meadows,  between 
bare  hillsides. 

Over  the  fields  we  saw  a  tiny  belfried  church, 


4  Along  the  Ro^d 

in  a  wide  meadow ;  a  little  path  led  to  it ;  and 
when  we  were  close  at  hand  we  could  see  that 
it  had  a  minute  ancient  chancel,  of  singularly 
rude  masonry,  and  a  small  Tudor  nave  tacked 
on  at  a  curious  angle.  Inside  it  was  one  of 
the  homeliest  of  sanctuaries,  with  its  irregular 
Georgian  pews,  faint  traces  of  rusty  frescoes,  a 
pretty  Jacobean  pulpit,  and  a  poppyhead  or  two 
of  gnarled  oak.  But  what  a  vista  of  age  was 
opened  out,  when  one  found  the  chancel  to  be 
paved  in  places  with  a  Roman  mosaic,  the  bound- 
ing lines  of  which  ran  close  to  the  walls,  and 
left  no  sort  of  doubt  that  the  chancel,  even  in 
its  very  walls,  were  the  remnants  of  the  hall  of 
some  Roman  manor-house,  converted,  when  dere- 
lict, into  the  simplest  of  Norman  chapels.  It  was 
no  doubt  the  home  of  some  Roman  settlers,  and 
clearly  inhabited  for  several  generations;  pro- 
bably not  even  fortified,  so  full  are  these  valleys 
of  great  wealthy  Roman  houses,  with  cloister  and 
colonnade  and  bath  and  hall,  all  testifying  to  a 
quiet  colonial  life  in  fi  peaceful  land.  What  a 
mystery  hangs  over  it  ali^  These  great  country 
houses,  no  doubt,  were  one  by  one  evacuated,  as 
the  Roman  legions  were  withdrawn,  to  crumble 
down  into  decay  among  brushwood  and  gorse. 
And  then  came  the  slow  growth  of  kingdoms,  and 
the  spread  of  the  Faith,  till  the  old  ruin  among 
the  thickets  was  repaired  into  a  tiny  Christian 
church,  who  knows  by  what  hands,  or  how  many 
dim  years  ago! 


Old  England  5 

Then  we  sauntered  on,  and  presently  came  to 
broad  turfed  terraces,  in  a  pasture,  with  some 
odd  square  pools  below  them,  and  so  to  a  small 
hamlet  with  a  little  church  and  a  gabled  manor- 
house.  The  church  was  full  of  great  monuments, 
cavaliers,  and  knights,  with  kirtled  spouses,  lying 
stiffly,  their  hands  beneath  their  heads,  their 
ruddy  painted  faces,  and  their  eyes  looking  tran- 
quilly out  into  the  church.  There  were  brasses, 
too,  on  the  pavement,  and  later,  more  pompous 
monuments,  with  weeping  cherubs,  and  inscrip- 
tions in  flowing  polysyllables,  telling  one  of 
nothing  that  one  cared  to  know,  except  of  the 
eminent  virtues  which  grief  seems  always  to  take 
for  granted. 

The  history  of  some  great  house  was  evidently 
hidden  here;  the  name  of  the  family  was  Fetti- 
])lace.  When  I  got  back  home,  I  looked  it  up, 
and  the  strangest  story  was  revealed.  The  Fetti- 
y)laces  were  an  ancient  stock  which  grew  slowly, 
by  inheritance  and  alliance,  into  extraordinary 
wealth  and  station.  They  had  land  in  sixteen 
counties,  and  one  of  the  heads  of  the  family 
actually  married  a  Braganza,  a  daughter  of  a 
King  of  Portugal.  The  family,  for  all  its  influ- 
ence, never  gave  a  single  statesman  or  judge  or 
bishop  or  admiral  or  general  to  England.  They 
had  no  record  of  public  service,  only  of  great 
and  growing  prosperity.  Then  they  began  to 
dwindle;  the  baronetcy  became  extinct,  the  name 
was  still  kept  up  in  the  female  line,  and  then 


6  Along  the  Road 

the  great  house  went  out  in  the  snuff;  ugly  stories 
were  told  of  them;  they  became  imbecile  and 
drunken,  and  at  last  the  family  became  wholly 
extinct.  The  great  house,  which  had  stood,  with 
its  facade  and  cupolas,  among  the  terraces  we 
had  seen  in  the  pasture,  was  pulled  down,  the 
lands  were  sold,  and  the  whole  became  a  proud 
and  selfish  and  wicked  memory  of  great  oppor- 
tunities thrown  away,  and  vast  revenues  lavishly 
squandered. 

That  seems  to  me  a  very  sad  and  dreary  old 
story — the  fall  of  a  great  house!  One  does  not 
want  to  be  too  solemn  over  it,  but  it  is  a  sinister 
warning  enough  that  one  had  better  not  build 
too  much  on  the  brave  shows  of  life,  pomp,  and 
property  and  house  and  influence;  that  the  world 
is  not  a  place  where  it  is  well  to  scramble  for 
one's  satisfaction,  and  waste  what  one  cannot 
use;  and  that  it  may  be  better  after  all  to  give 
than  to  receive,  though  we  most  of  us  seem  to 
hold  the  contrary. 

It  did  somehow  seem  to  me  th,at  day,  among 
those  high-piled,  much-escutcheoned  monuments, 
that  we  many  of  us  do  pursue  shadows ;  that  the 
treasures  of  life  are  wholesome  work  and  deep 
affections,  and  the  simple  things  that  amuse  and 
occupy  and  uplift.  Yet  we  pass  over  these  things, 
many  of  us,  as  commonplace  and  humdrum,  and 
set  our  minds  on  some  silly  ambition,  some  paltry 
fame,  some  trivial  distinction,  and  forget  that  the 
true  life  is  streaming  past  unheeded. 


Old  England  7 

Is  this  all  a  very  threadbare  philosophy?  I  do 
not  know.  I  can  only  say,  very  humbly,  that  it 
has  taken  me  fifty  years  of  varied  and  interesting 
life  to  perceive  it,  to  sort  the  gold  from  the  dross ; 
to  see  how  I  have  wasted  my  days  in  the  excited 
pursuit  of  shadows,  and  often  despised  the  sweet, 
simple,  enriching,  increasing  things  that  lay  all 
about  me,  like  the  daisies  on  a  green  pasture. 

I  could  not,  in  the  presence  of  those  stiff 
knights  and  dainty  ladies,  in  their  arched  and 
emblemed  niches,  feel  that  we  had  got  hold  of 
the  right  proportions  of  life.  Perhaps  the  Fetti- 
places,  for  all  their  estates  and  grandeurs  and 
eminent  virtues,  did  live  simple  lives  amidst  it 
all,  loving  the  pure  air  that  blew  over  the  spare 
hillsides,  and  the  clear  stream  that  gushed  be- 
neath their  gardens,  with  their  jolly  boys  and 
girls  growing  up  about  them.  Yet  something 
more  ought  to  have  come  out  of  it  all;  some 
sharing  of  good  things,  some  example  of  neigh- 
bourly life,  some  love  and  sympathy  for  poorer 
brethren.  One  does  not  like  to  feel  that  these 
virtues  have  been  developed — for  they  have  much 
increased  of  late — out  of  pure  terror  at  the  rising 
forces  of  democracy.  It  all  ought  to  have  grown 
u])  spontaneously,  and  to  have  been  generously 
conceded;  and  I  doubt  if  it  was. 

Indeed,  if  further  proof  were  needed  of  some- 
thing vile  and  ugly  in  the  old  life  of  that  still 
countryside,  I  saw  a  day  or  two  later,  hardly  a 
mile  from  the  Fettiplace  monuments,  a  solitary 


8  Along  the  Road 

oak,  standing  far  away  from  the  coverts,  with  a 
rough  old  path  leading  to  it  across  the  fields. 
On  the  trunk,  beneath  a  great  horizontal  out- 
thrusting  bough,  were  some  initials  scarred  deep 
into  the  wood,  with  a  date  more  than  a  century 
old.  The  gibbet  tree!  The  initials  are  those  of 
two  unhappy  men,  highway  robbers,  I  think, 
whose  mouldering  bodies  must  have  dangled  there, 
knocking  in  an  ugly  fashion  against  the  tree,  as 
the  wind  blew  over  the  wood,  with  what  horrors 
of  scent  and  corruption !  One  thinks  of  the  dread- 
ful group  gathered  there ;  the  desperate  man,  with 
the  rope  round  his  neck  thrown  over  the  bough; 
the  officers,  the  sheriff,  the  magistrates  on  horse- 
back, the  staring  crowd;  and  then  the  struggling 
breath,  the  inflated  eyes,  the  convulsed  limbs. 
One  must  not  put  all  that  out  of  sight,  as  one 
dreams  over  the  honest,  quiet,  simple  days  of  old ! 
And  what  can  we  make  of  it  all,  the  grass- 
grown  terraces,  the  Roman  pavement,  the  solitary 
tree — difficult  pieces  of  a  strange  puzzle,  to  be 
fitted  together  ?  One  thing,  to  my  mind,  emerges, 
that  one  must  not  judge  harshly,  or  hope  hastily, 
or  believe  tamely,  or  dream  comfortably,  but  try 
to  see  life  whole,  to  face  its  harshnesses  and  its 
horrors,  and  yet  to  hold  very  firmly  to  a  vast 
scheme,  working  itself  out,  with  marvellous 
patience  and  exactness,  nothing  wasted,  nothing 
slurred  over,  and  all  in  the  Mind  and  Heart  of 
God. 


AN  AUTUMN  LANDSCAPE 

I  WAS  walking  the  other  day  with  a  friend  at 
Cambridge  along  the  road  that  runs  up  Mad- 
ingley  Hill.  In  most  countries  this  would  be 
accounted  a  trifling  undulation,  but  here  in  Cam- 
bridgeshire it  is  a  bold  and  conspicuous  eminence, 
commanding  a  wide  view  of  the  world.  Beyond 
the  groves  of  Girton,  far  to  the  north,  we  could 
see  the  dim  towers  of  Ely,  not"  unlike  a  gigantic 
locomotive,  across  the  great  Fen,  with  its  rich 
blues  and  greens,  all  mellowed  and  refined  by  the 
thin  autumnal  mist;  the  pale  fallows,  the  large 
pastures  sloped  away  pleasantly  from  our  feet, 
with  here  and  there  a  row  of  elms,  or  a  yellow- 
ing spinney.  We  halted  at  a  gate  by  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  and  my  friend  said  to  me,  "  I  wonder 
what  it  is  that  makes  all  this  so  beautiful.  There 
is  nothing  wild  or  romantic  about  it;  it  has  no 
features;  every  acre  has  its  simple  use;  it  has  all 
been  tamed  and  tilled.  It  would  be  hard  to  ex- 
plain to  any  one  what  it  is  that  is  beautiful  about 
it;  and  yet  I  can  fancy  that  if  one  were  com- 
pelled to  live  abroad,  in  a  place  as  beautiful  as 
Florence,  or  even  in  some  tropical  landscape,  one 

9 


lo  Along  the  Road 

would  revert  in  thought  and  even  with  a  sort  of 
passionate  longing  to  these  level  pastures  and 
tame  woods,  as  to  something  almost  inexpressibly 
dear  and  delightful." 
—  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  can  well  imagine  it ;  but 
would  not  that  be  partly  just  the  sense  of  home 
and  familiar  things,  a  countryside  peopled  with 
men  whose  talk  one  could  understand,  and  with 
birds  and  plants  whose  habits  and  f6rms  one 
knew — a  sort  of  revolt  against  things  splendid 
and  striking,  which  had  yet  no  happy  and  mov- 
ing associations?  So  much  of  the  beauty  of 
things,  as  well  as  of  places,  depends  upon  the 
happy  mind  one  carried  about  among  them  long 
ago,  when  one  read  one's  own  inner  delight  into 
tree  and  wall.  I  am  sure  that  I  love  the  elm 
because  of  the  playing-fields  at  Eton!  The  very 
word  elm  calls  up  the  look  of  the  great  trees, 
with  all  their  towering  foliage,  on  a  summer  even- 
ing beside  the  Thames,  or  the  sight  of  them  seen 
through  the  open  windoAvs  of  a  schoolroom  in  a 
spring  morning — ^  the  times,'  as  Tennyson  said, 

*  When  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame.' 

We  can't  isolate  ourselves  and  look  at  all  things 
impartially  and  dispassionately,  however  much 
we  try — and  after  all,  who  would  try  ?  " 

"  Oh !  of  course,"  he  said ;  "  half  the  beauty  of 
it  is  memory  and  old  delights;  but  there  must  be 


An  Autumn  Landscape  ii 

somethin":  more  than  that.  Ts  it  perhaps  not  a 
sense  of  beauty  at  all,  but  an  ancient,  instinctive 
sense  of  prosperity  and  husbandry — the  well- 
reaped  field,  the  plentiful  pasture,  some  of  which 
may  come  our  way  in  the  shape  of  loaves  and 
sirloins." 

"No,"  T  said,  "that  is  really  too  horrible  to 
suggest.  Come,  let  us  take  the  landscape  to 
pieces,  and  see  if  we  can  detect  its  secret." 

So  we  stood  for  a  little  by  the  gate  and 
measured  it  with  our  eyes,  as  the  Romans  used 
to  say. 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  of  it  colour,"  I  said.  "  First 
of  all  there  is  the  sky — we  have  not  apportioned 
that  out,  at  all  events,  to  landlords  and  syn- 
dicates! There  is  something  free  and  essentially 
liberal  about  the  sky;  and  that  sapphire  blue, 
with  a  hint  of  golden  haze  about  it,  is  not  wholly 
utilitarian.  Those  big,  packed  clouds  down  there, 
like  snow-clad  bluffs,  I  have  no  particular  use  for 
them,  nor  do  I  expect  any  benefits  from  them; 
but  they  are  vaguely  exciting  and  delightful ;  and 
then  the  delicate  curves  and  converging  lines  of 
the  fields  are  beautiful  in  their  way,  neither 
disorderly  nor  too  geometrical;  and  there  is  a 
sense,  too,  that  the  whole  thing  is  not  hopelessly 
deliberate.  If  this  were  a  treeless  expanse, 
geometrically  squared,  it  would  not  be  so  attrac- 
tive. The  whole  thing  has  a  history.  The 
hamlets  signify  wells  and  springs,  the  byways 
meandering  about  stand  for  old  forest  tracks; 


12  Along  the  Road 

that  lane  down  there  which  gives  a  sudden 
Avriggle,  quite  unintelligible  now,  probably  means 
a  gigantic  fallen  tree  which  it  was  too  much 
trouble  to  remove.  And  then  the  straight  lines 
of  the  Roman  roads— there  is  something  invigor- 
ating about  them." 

"  But  you  are  going  back  to  associations,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  don't  deny  them ;  what  about  the 
admixture  of  wildness  in  the  whole  scene?  I 
don't  see  much  trace  of  that." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  there  are  little  bits  of  dingles 
everywhere,  hedgerows  unreasonably  big,  elms 
where  they  are  not  needed;  a  nice  pit  there, 
fringed  with  reeds  and  full  of  water,  where  gravel 
was  dug  long  ago.  Some  perfectly  meaningless 
pieces  of  old  woodland,  left  there  with  a  sense 
of  pleasure  and  shade,  I  think,  and  the  trees 
themselves,  how  charmingly  irregular!  I  grant 
that  the  great  black  poplars  down  there  are  awk- 
ward enough,  but  look  at  the  little  gnarled,  pol- 
larded elms  round  the  farmstead,  and  the  big 
sycamore  in  that  close.  There  is  just  enough 
liberty  about,  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  it  is 
not  all  for  mere  use.  But  I  grant  you  that  it 
is  all  impossible  to  define;  one  can't  get  behind 
the  joy  of  colour,  and  in  England  we  care  about 
colour  very  much,  and  not  much  about  form." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  friend,  "  1  was  told  a  curious 
thing  about  that  the  other  day.  A  young  diplo- 
mat said  to  me  that  he  had  been  calling  on  a 
small  farmer  in  Japan,  quite  a  poor  man;  on  the 


An  Autumn  Landscape  13 

centre  of  the  table  in  his  room  lay  a  large  flint 
stone.  It  looked  so  unaccountable  that  he  said 
at  last  to  the  farmer,  *  What  is  that  stone?  There 
must  be  some  story  about  it,  I  suppose.  Why  do 
you  have  it  there?'  The  farmer  said,  *  Why,  of 
course,  you  see  what  a  beautiful  stone  it  is?  I 
have  it  here  to  look  at  because  it  is  so  beautiful.' 
^fy  friend  had  noticed  in  the  garden  outside  the 
liouse  a  little  rockery  of  similar  stones,  and  he 
said,  *Well,  you  have  some  stones  outside  in 
the  garden — this  looks  to  me  very  much  like 
those.'  *  Oh,  no,'  said  the  farmer,  *  those  are 
quite  common  stones,  useful  enough,  and  some  of 
them  even  pleasant,  but  not  beautiful  like  this 
one.  Come,'  he  added,  *we  w\\\  take  it  out  and 
look  at  it  side  by  side  with  them.'  He  did  so, 
and  pointed  out  all  the  superior  grace  and  ele- 
gance of  the  original  stone.  My  friend  said  that 
he  simply  had  no  idea  what  the  farmer  meant, 
and  it  was  as  if  some  sense  were  wanting  in 
him.  The  farmer  added,  *  It  is  a  famous  stone, 
too!  People  come  to  see  it  from  a  long  way 
round,  and  I  have  even  been  offered  a  large  price 
for  it.  But  I  cannot  part  with  it,  it  is  too  lovely. 
When  I  come  in  tired  with  my  work,  I  can  forget 
my  weariness  in  looking  at  my  stone  and  thinking 
how  fine  it  is.' " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  a  good  story;  and  one 
hears,  too,  how  workmen  in  Japan  will  keep  a 
flower  by  them  to  look  at  in  the  pauses  of  their 
work,    for    refreshment,    where    an    Englishman 


14  Along  the  Road 

would  need  a  pint  of  beer  to  make  him  a  cheerful 
countenance ! " 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  said  my  friend,  "  that  any 
one  of  the  people  who  work  about  here  in  the 
fields  have  any  sense  of  the  beauty  of  it  at  all? 
They  like  the  scene,  perhaps,  in  a  vague  way,  as 
something  they  are  familiar  with.  But  I  have 
seen  this  very  hill  on  which  we  stand,  with  the 
long  wood  on  the  top  and  the  broken  mill,  black 
and  solemn,  with  an  evening  sky  behind  it,  all 
transfigured  with  a  sense  of  something  that  it  is 
just  impossible  to  analyse  or  explain;  and,  of 
course,  the  most  ordinary  places,  at  dawn  or 
sunset,  if  only  they  are  quiet  and  simple  enough, 
and  not  disfigured  by  some  smart  and  intrusive 
piece  of  modernity, — like  that  corrugated  iron 
barn-roof  there,  or  that  row  of  admirable  cot- 
tages,— can  take  on  a  beauty  of  mystery  and  peace 
which  seems  to  come  from  some  old  and  pure 
source;  and  this  quiet  kind  of  beauty  is  perhaps 
the  truest  of  all,  this  *  field-space  and  sky-silence,' 
which  can  respond  to  a  hundred  different  moods, 
and  gains  all  the  mystery  and  depth  of  the  true 
symbol  by  not  too  insistently  claiming  a  special 
and  peculiar  loveliness  of  its  own." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  am  sure  you  are  right  about 
this;  and  I  always  suspect  the  sense  of  beauty  in 
a  man  who  goes  in  search  of  what  is  melodramatic 
and  romantic  in  scenery,  and  complains  of  the 
dulness  of  the  simple  countryside.  How  one's 
heart  pines,  among  the  snow-peaks  and  pine-clad 


An  Autumn  Landscape  15 

gorges  of  Switzerland,  for  a  row  of  elms  and  a 
gabled  farmstead  I  If  one  loves  the  unadorned 
landscape,  one  may  take  a  draught  every  now 
and  then  of  richer  and  more  intoxicating  scenery, 
like  that  of  our  English  lakes— and  yet  half  the 
beauty  of  that  is  its  combination  of  great  moun- 
tain-shapes and  rugged  ridges  with  the  sweet  and 
pastoral  life  that  nestles  in  its  dingles  and  green 
valleys.  Tlie  joy  of  a  mountain  walk  there  is 
the  passing  through  the  level  pastures,  with  their 
clear  streams  and  tree-clad  knolls,  up  into  the 
steeper  valleys,  where  the  brook  comes  tinkling 
and  dripping  down  among  the  thickets,  with  the 
steeply  sloping  stone-walled  meadows,  the  quaint 
huddled  hamlets  propped  at  every  kind  of  pleas- 
ant angle,  and  so  out  on  to  the  moorland  and 
up  the  green  shoulders  of  the  hill;  and  then  the 
return,  dropping  from  the  bleak,  black  mountain- 
head  down  the  wind-swept  valley,  till  the  trees 
begin,  and  one  is  back  again  in  the  comfortable 
range  of  humanity,  with  the  sense  of  the  old  life 
of  the  world  all  about  one,  and  the  people  who 
live  their  poetry  instead  of  scribbling  it  down." 

"  But  I  should  be  very  sorry,"  said  ipy  friend, 
"  if  it  were  not  sometimes  scribbled  down !  T 
like  to  think  of  old  Wordsworth,  with  his  rustic 
form  and  sturdy  legs,  his  plain  face  gaining,  as 
his  companions  testified,  an  inspired  solemnity  of 
aspect  from  the  sight  of  the  earth  that  he  loved 
so  well — all  that  grows  out  of  it,  all  that  lived 
upon  it.    The  beauty  of  the  earth  and  the  beauty 


i6  Along  the  Road 

of  the  human  face — those  are  the  only  two  kinds 
of  beauty  that  we  in  England  understand  and 
express." 

By  this  time  we  were  far  on  our  way;  but  we 
halted  once  more,  as  we  retraced  our  steps,  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  to  watch  the  mist  beginning 
to  swim  in  faint  veils  and  wreaths  over  the  low- 
lying  fields,  under  a  green  frosty  sky,  fringed 
with  orange  light;  and  farther  yet  the  towers 
and  spires  of  Cambridge  rose  softly  out  of  the 
haze,  the  smoke  drifting  northwards  in  the 
breeze,  without  a  sound  except  the  sharp  cry  of 
some  night-bird  in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  and 
the  rhythmical  beat  of  horsehoofs,  now  loud  now 
low,  on  the  road  that  bore  us  back  to  the  accus- 
tomed hearth,  out  of  the  twilight  fields  and  the 
solitary  hill. 


ST.  GOVAN'S 

The  little  rough  lane,  with  its  decrepit  hedges 
of  turf  and  stones,  ended  suddenly  in  a  broad 
sheet  of  grass,  closely  combed  and  elastic.  Two 
hundred  feet  below  lay  the  open  Atlantic,  its 
green  waves  riding  majestically  landward  before 
the  fresh  wind.  To  left  and  right,  over  the  high 
pastures,  headland  after  headland  ran  out  sea- 
ward. For  miles  on  either  hand  the  sheer  grey 
clitfs  dropped  precipitously  to  the  breakers, 
broken  but  twice  or  thrice  by  the  inlet  of  creek 
or  haven  or  sand-fringed  bay,  with  here  and  there 
a  toppling  pinnacle  of  rock,  cut  off  from  the 
mainland,  rising  grimly  out  of  the  boiling  surf. 

The  cliff-edge  was  but  a  few  yards  away,  and 
seemed  as  abrupt  here  as  elsewhere ;  but  on  draw- 
ing near,  the  head  of  a  little  ravine  opened  in 
the  turf,  with  steep,  rocky  sides,  the  tufts  of  sea- 
thrift  and  shaggy  grass  clinging  to  ledge  and 
cleft;  in  the  sparse  soil  appeared  the  head  of  a 
rude  staircase,  made  of  little  slabs  of  worn  grey 
stone,  deeply  set.  A  few  steps  downwards,  and 
there  appeared,  down  below,  the  grey-slated  roof 
and  rough  belfry  of  a  tiny  chapel,  hanging  be- 


1 8  Along  the  Road 

tween  sea  and  sky,  half-embedded  in  the  ground, 
and  wedged  between  the  steep  rocks  of  the  ravine 
from  side  to  side,  like  a  nest  in  a  thicket.  It 
looked  strangely  precarious  there,  with  the  wind 
volleying  over  it  and  the  billows  roaring  beneath, 
as  though  a  touch  would  have  sent  it  bounding 
in  ruins  down  the  slope.  A  farther  descent,  with 
the  crags  closing  in  on  either  hand,  brought  one 
to  the  low-arched  door;  the  whole  place  was  in- 
credibly rude  and  ancient,  built  of  roughly-shaped 
limestone  fragments.  Indeed,  the  antiquaries  say 
that  the  masonry  is  Roman,  and  that  it  was  evi- 
dently a  little  fort  to  guard  the  landing-place, 
which  a  hermit  had  restored  and  adapted  to  more 
pious  uses.  The  roof  within,  low-vaulted  and 
roughly  plastered;  the  floor  nothing  but  oozy 
marl,  red  and  miry,  with  the  rain-water  dripping 
in  pools  by  window  and  door.  A  single  square 
aperture,  open  to  the  air,  looked  seaward,  and 
the  wind  thundered  through.  There  was  a  rude 
stone  altar,  and  a  low  stone  seat  on  each  side, 
running  the  whole  length  of  the  chapel;  at  the 
west  a  little  door  led  out  upon  the  steep  seaward 
track;  beside  the  altar,  another  little  door  led 
into  a  sort  of  cave  in  the  limestone,  half-open  to 
the  sky;  this  was  all  rude  and  unshaped,  except 
for  a  rough,  upright  niche  on  the  left  just  large 
enough  to  contain  the  body  of  a  man  of  moderate 
stature.  Tradition  says,  and  there  is  no  reason 
to  doubt  it,  that  this  is  a  place  of  penance.  It 
is  strange  indeed  to  think  of  the  old  anchorite, 


St.  Govan's  19 

with  his  wild  hair  and  beard,  crouching  naked 
in  this  drear}'  cleft,  hour  by  hour,  with  the  wind 
howling  in  the  gully,  and  the  rain  dripping 
through  the  crevices,  quenching  rebellious  tempta- 
tions, or  expiating  old  light-hearted  sins,  and 
offering  his  pain  with  a  willing  heart  to  the 
pitiful  Father  of  all  living. 

Yet  it  cannot  have  been  a  wholly  lonely  life. 
The  place  was  visited  of  old  by  hundreds  of  pil- 
grims. A  little  farther  down  the  steep  seaward 
track  is  a  well,  rudely  arched  over  with  rugged 
masonry,  the  water  of  which  was  credited  with 
healing  virtues.  Even  fifty  years  ago,  it  is  said, 
there  were  to  be  seen,  thrust  in  among  the 
boulders,  crutches  and  splints  and  bandages, 
votive  offerings  from  simple  pilgrims  who  had 
reason  to  think  themselves  cured  by  the  sacred 
waters.  It  is  all  a  very  bewildering  and  start- 
ling mystery,  not,  I  think,  to  be  lightly  dismissed 
as  a  mass  of  unscientific  tradition  and  gross 
superstition.  And  in  any  case,  the  scene  of  so 
much  human  emotion,  such  suffering,  such  hopes, 
such  gratitude,  must  have  a  pathos  of  its  own. 
Now  the  wind  whistles  in  the  cleft,  and  the  thin 
cry  of  the  floating  gull  comes  mournfully  up, 
while  the  breakers  blanch  on  the  rocks  below. 
In  summer  come  parties  of  holiday-making  folk, 
who  peer  into  the  chapel,  squeeze  themselves 
laughing  into  the  hermifs  niche,  sip  the  waters 
of  the  well,  and  feast  pleasantly  above  the  gently- 
lapping  sea;  and  perhaps  it  is  better  so;  though 


20  Along  the  Road 

one  does  not  think  that  the  hermit's  penitential 
groans  and  the  feverish  prayers  of  the  sufferers 
who  dragged  themselves  so  patiently  down  those 
rugged  steps  were  utterly  wasted.  We  still 
lament  our  faults,  endure  our  pains,  breathe  our 
hopes,  though  we  do  it  more  tentatively,  and, 
we  claim,  more  reasonably  to-day ! 

It  is  strange  that  nothing  should  be  known  of 
the  hermit  or  the  hermits  that  lived  so  hard  a 
life  between  the  sky  and  the  sea.  The  name  St. 
Govan  does  not  even  enshrine  a  sacred  memory. 
It  is  nothing  but  a  corruption  of  Sir  Gawain,  the 
nephew  of  King  Arthur,  and  one  of  the  most 
sin-stained  and  treacherous  of  the  knights  of  the 
Round  Table.  It  was  said  that  he  suffered  ship- 
wreck here,  and  that  this  great  body  was  washed 
ashore,  bruised  and  shattered;  and  that  at  the 
time  of  the  Conquest  his  tomb  was  still  to  be 
seen  on  the  hilltop,  a  huge  pile  of  hewn  stone. 

But  dim  and  strange  as  the  human  memories 
of  the  place  are,  the  mind  struggles  backwards 
through  the  centuries,  feeling  its  way  helplessly 
across  the  tracts  of  time ;  how  tiny  a  fringe,  after 
all,  of  the  real  life  of  the  place  is  the  part  that 
it  has  played  in  human  history  and  tradition! 
I  suppose  that  for  thousands  of  years  there  has 
been  hardly  a  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  scene. 
When  Israel  came  out  of  Egypt,  when  the  Greeks 
fought  round  about  Troy,  when  Romulus  walled 
his  little  upland  fort  among  the  clustered  hills  of 
Rome,  the  sun  shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  and  the 


St.  Govan's  21 

rollers  thundered  in  upon  the  gorse-clad  pro- 
montory and  the  bleak  cliff- precipices.  The  gulls 
and  the  sea-snails  of  the  place  have  an  ancestry 
that  would  put  the  pedigrees  of  kings  and  em- 
perors to  shame.  The  mystery  of  it  all  is  that 
these  creatures  of  the  surf  and  the  cliff  have  lived 
their  blind  lives,  generation  after  generation,  with 
the  passions  and  emotions  of  the  day  and  the 
hour;  is  it  all  for  nothing  that  they  have  lived 
and  died?  What  has  become  of  the  life  and 
spirit  which  animated  them?  It  must  at  least 
be  as  lasting  as  the  stone  of  the  crag  and  the 
boulder  of  the  shore;  and  we  know  of  no  pro- 
cess which  should  create  either  or  bring  either 
to  an  end.  And  then  at  last  comes  man;  and 
here  the  amazing  thing  is  that  he  can  send  his 
thought  backwards  and  forwards  through  the 
ages,  can  imagine  the  endless  procession  of  lives, 
the  generations  of  creatures  that  have  dwelt  here. 
At  my  feet  there  crops  out  a  piece  of  limestone 
through  the  turf,  close-set  with  the  fossil  fibres 
of  some  prehistorfic  madrepore,  the  sign  of  a  life 
embalmed  and  recorded,  so  ancient  that  the  mind 
can  hardly  wrestle  with  the  thought.  Yet  it  all 
means  something  in  the  vast  mind  of  God.  And 
here  is  the  wonderful  part,  that  to  man  alone  is 
it  given  to  set  himself  as  it  were  by  the  side  of 
the  Creator,  and  survey  the  range  and  progress 
of  the  eternal  work;  and  then  the  thought  flies 
farther  yet,  to  the  stars  that  hang,  unseen  in 
the  noonday  light,  over  sea  and  shore,  each  star 


22  Along  the  Road 

with  its  planets,  like  our  own,  inhabited  doubtless 
by  other  creatures,  with  lives  like  our  own,  in- 
telligences, emotions,  spirits,  with  what  miracles, 
perhaps,  of  grace  and  redemption  working  them- 
selves out  for  them,  through  the  mercy  and 
loving-kindness  of  the  Father  of  all. 

It  is  true  that  the  mind  cannot  live  or  breathe 
or  act  at  these  altitudes;  but  for  all  that,  there 
are  days  and  hours  when  such  thoughts  are  in- 
evitable and  inspiring  too,  even  though  it  may 
bring  home  to  us  how  brief  and  negligible  a  thing 
is  the  opening  of  the  windows  of  our  own  soul 
Upon  the  daylight  of  the  world.  It  is  an  awful 
and  overmastering  thought,  for  it  reveals  the 
almost  ghastly  insignificance  of  the  single  life; 
yet  it  is  inspiring  too,  for  it  reveals  that,  how- 
ever small  that  life  may  be,  it  yet  has  a  sure  and 
certain  place  in  the  Father's  thought;  that  His 
work  was  not  complete  without  us,  and  that  we 
are  eternally  and  utterly  in  His  care. 

Such  was  the  message  of  the  cliff-top  and  the 
sea,  so  that  the  little  chapel  became  a  place  of 
visions,  full  of  light,  and  resounding  to  the  far- 
off  harmony  of  a  heavenly  music.  Could  one  but 
keep  that  music  undimmed  and  pure ! 

But  the  day  begins  to  darken  to  its  close ;  the  old 
familiar  tide  of  life  sweeps  up,  and  draws  one  back 
to  work  and  love,  to  joy  and  pain — yet  that  awe- 
struck hope,  that  sense  of  far-off  mystery  is  indeed 
an  earnest  of  the  heavenly  vision.  "  When  I  awake 
up  after  Thy  likeness,  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  it." 


A  RUINED  HOUSE 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  what  can  be  the  origin 
of  the  pleasnre  which  human  beings  take  in  con- 
templating a  ruined  building.  One  would  think 
that  there  must  be  something  morbid  in  the  de- 
light of  seeing  the  skeleton,  so  to  speak,  of  an 
ancient  house  or  church,  built  for  pleasure  or 
piety,  a  thing  that  stands  for  so  much  vanished 
life,  and  faded  pride,  and  vain  expense;  the 
broken  abode  of  so  many  hopes  and  affections  and 
joys,  to  say  nothing  of  fears  and  sorrows.  And 
I  suppose  that  the  charm  partly  lies  there — the 
charm  of  "  old  unhappy  far-off  things,"  the  sense 
of  the  joyfulness  of  life,  its  brave  designs,  its 
rich  expectations;  and  then  the  brevity  of  it  all, 
its  unutterable  pathos,  its  lavish  suffering,  and 
the  dark  mystery  of  its  close.  That  is  what 
I)eople  of  experience  and  imagination  find  in  the 
sight  of  an  ancient  ruin;  and  yet  when  the 
summer  sun  falls  on  ivied  gable  and  mouldering 
arch,  there  comes  a  sense  of  tranquillity  and 
content,  as  though  death  could  not,  after  all,  be 
really  a  shadow  upon  Nature,  or  a  sundering 
flood,  when  decay  itself  can  be  so  beautiful. 

23 


24  Along  the  Road 

I  imagine  that  the  whole  emotion  is  a  very 
modern  one,  hardly  more  than  a  century  old. 
The  strange  thing  is  that  the  mediaeval  builders, 
whose  ruined  towers  and  choirs  we  go  far  to  see, 
had  no  trace  of  such  a  feeling.  They  frankly 
preferred  the  new  to  the  old.  They  thought 
nothing  of  putting  a  new  and  gorgeous  front  on 
an  old  and  simple  church,  and  they  were  always, 
it  seems,  glad  to  pull  anything  down,  if  they 
could  replace  it  by  a  smarter  substitute.  As  for 
a  ruin,  it  was  simply  a  useless  and  uninteresting 
heap  of  stones,  a  convenient  quarry,  a  place  of 
perquisites.  And  then,  too,  we  must  remember 
that  from  the  time  of  the  Restoration,  till  Horace 
Walpole  and  Gray  came  on  the  scene,  a  Gothic 
building  was  considered  a  hideous  and  barbarous 
affair,  to  be  replaced,  if  possible,  by  a  neat 
classical  edifice,  and  if  not,  to  be  endured  in 
silence.  No,  the  whole  sentiment  for  what  is  old 
and  ruinous  is  a  modern  one,  and  I  think  a 
tender  one,  good  for  heart  and  mind;  though  it 
argues  perhaps  a  want  of  manly  confidence  in 
our  own  performances  and  improvements ;  and  is 
partly  responsible  for  the  fact  that  we  cannot 
find  a  style  of  our  own  in  architecture,  but  are 
always  trying  combinations  and  reconstructions 
instead  of  striking  out  a  new  line. 

And  then,  too,  for  the  present  generation,  a 
ruin  is  so  often  connected  with  happy  holiday 
times,  an  expedition  and  a  picnic;  it  stands  for 
plenty    of    adventure    and    laughter    and    good 


A  Ruined  House  25 

humour  and  unusual  food  and  pleasant  relaxa- 
tion of  normal  discipline.  I  recall  the  summer 
jaunts  of  my  childhood,  and  try  to  disentangle 
what  the  charm  of  it  all  was.  It  certainly  was 
not  in  the  least  connected  with  any  sense  of  what 
was  picturesque,  nor  had  the  imagination  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  I  never  attempted  as  a  child 
to  reconstruct  any  picture  of  the  old  life  of  the 
])lace,  the  armoured  knights,  the  embowered 
ladies,  the  rough  merriment  of  the  guard-room 
or  hall.  I  fancy  that  the  pleasure  was  scram- 
bling on  broken  stairs,  looking  over  dizzy  para- 
pets, and  peeping  into  dark  vaults,  combined  with 
a  very  constant  hope  that  one  might  stumble  on 
some  sort  of  buried  treasure,  a  hoard  of  coins 
in  an  earthen  vase,  or  a  ring  encircling  a  mould- 
ering finger  bone.  Such  things  had  happened, 
and  why  not  to  me?  I  was  not  at  all  of  the 
opinion  of  Matthew  Arnold's  eight-year-old  son, 
who  was  taken,  it  is  recorded  in  his  father's 
letters,  to  a  picnic  at  Furness  Abbey.  Budge  was 
the  child's  sobriquet.  When  the  living  freight  of 
the  carriage  had  emptied  itself  into  the  ruins, 
there  were  exclamations  on  every  side,  such  as 
might  fall  from  the  members  of  a  highly  culti- 
vated circle,  at  the  romantic  charm  of  the  place. 
The  wise  Budge  waited  till  the  tempest  of 
aesthetic  delight  had  spent  itself,  and  then  up- 
lifted a  clear  childish  treble,  "  What  a  nasty, 
beastly  place!"  That  unsophisticated  opinion, 
that  dispassionate  judgment,  is  what  I  believe 


26  Along  the  Road 

the  natural  mind,  complicated  by  no  false  sen- 
timent, no  cultured  association,  ought  undoubt- 
edly to  feel  at  so  melancholy,  so  wasteful,  so 
disorderly  a  sight  as  a  great  building  falling 
into  decay. 

And  yet,  from  whatever  intricate  source  it  may 
arise,  that  is  not  at  all  the  thought  of  the  mature 
mind.  I  have  been  spending  some  days  in  Pem- 
brokeshire, that  marvellous  bleak,  wind-swept 
land,  with  its  winding  sea-creeks,  its  fantastic 
cliffs,  its  rocky  islets.  There  is  a  paradise  of 
romantic  buildings!  Valley  after  valley  has  its 
bastioned  feudal  fortress — Llawhaden,  Carew, 
Manorbier — the  very  names  have  a  thrill !  Ham- 
let after  hamlet  has  an  ivy-clad,  stone- vaulted 
stronghold,  and  one  can  hardly  conceive  what 
conditions  of  life  should  have  produced  such  a 
proximity  of  stately,  guarded  dwellings.  On  hill 
after  hill  there  stands  some  low-arched,  thick- 
walled  church,  with  a  great  loop-holed  tower, 
corbelled  and  machicolated,  the  high  walls  in- 
clining gently  towards  the  top — "  battering  "  is 
the  technical  term — which  gives  them  a  marvel- 
lous grace  of  outline. 

Here  on  a  still  winter  afternoon,  with  a  pale 
gleam  of  sun,  we  came  suddenly  on  a  place,  Lam- 
phey  by  name,  of  which  I  had  not  so  much  as 
heard,  which  seems  to  me  one  of  the  most  in- 
credibly beautiful  things  I  have  ever  had  the 
delight  of  seeing.  It  was  one  of  the  seven  great 
houses  of  the  Bishops  of  St.  David's,  but  it  was 


A  Ruined  House  27 

alieuated  from  the  see  to  Henry  VIII.  by  Bishop 
Barlow,  wlio  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  most 
unsatisfactory  prelates  who  ever  bore  rule  in  the 
Church.  He  married  the  prioress  of  a  disbanded 
nunnery,  Agatha  Wellsburn  by  name,  and  his 
five  daughters  all  married  bishops!  I  shrink 
from  recording  the  character  of  the  bishop  him- 
self, as  sketched  by  a  near  relative.  He  dis- 
mantled the  palace  at  St.  David's,  and  sold  the 
lead  of  the  roof;  Lamphey  he  parted  with  to  the 
king,  in  favour  of  a  godson  of  his  own,  a  Dever- 
eux,  who  was  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Essex ; 
in  fact,  the  ill-fated  Earl,  the  favourite  and 
victim  of  Elizabeth,  spent  his  happy  youth  in 
these  towers. 

Down  in  a  pleasant  valley  lies  the  great  ruined 
house,  by  the  side  of  a  rapid,  full-fed  stream  that 
runs  through  wooded  hills,  by  sedge-fringed  pas- 
tures and  copse-clad  dingles.  The  air  is  soft  and 
sweet.  Big  palms  grow  in  the  open  air  by  the 
ruined  walls,  and  the  ivy  sprawls  over  the  para- 
pets with  marvellous  luxuriance.  The  pleasaunce 
is  now  a  high-walled  garden,  in  the  centre  of 
which  stands  a  tower  of  exquisite  proportions, 
with  a  charming  arched  loggia  at  the  top,  a 
favourite  design  of  Bishop  Gower,  the  fourteenth- 
century  Bishop  of  St.  David's,  who  left  this 
beautiful  feature  of  his  art  in  most  of  the  palaces 
of  the  see.  The  building,  which  is  wonderfully 
complete,  stretches  away  beside  the  stream  in  two 
vast  blocks  of  masonry,  of  all  sorts  of  dates  and 


28  Along  the  Road 

designs,  with  its  towers  and  bastions  and  gables 
and  buttresses,  all  wreathed  in  ivy,  with  a  great 
profusion  of  ferns  and  creeping  plants,  the  cattle 
stalled  in  its  vaults,  the  garden  implements  stored 
in  its  stately  chambers.  Here,  in  its  green  soli- 
tude, with  the  stream  swirling  at  its  foot  and 
the  wind  whispering  in  the  thickets,  it  crumbles 
slowly  to  decay. 

Well,  it  served  its  turn,  no  doubt,  the  great 
house  of  Lamphey!  One  cannot  help  wondering 
at  the  strange  fortune  that  surrounded  these 
servants  of  Christ,  these  successors  of  the  Gali- 
lean fishermen,  with  all  this  secular  splendour, 
this  feudal  pomp  and  power!  A  Bishop  of  St. 
David's,  with  his  retinue  of  knights  and  his  seven 
castles,  can  have  had  but  little  leisure  for  apos- 
tolical duties.  But  it  was  a  reward,  no  doubt, 
for  all  that  the  Church  had  done  to  Christianise 
and  civilise  this  rude  corner  of  the  world;  and 
it  was  just  because  the  Church  yielded  to  the 
temptations  of  aggrandisement,  of  influence,  of 
wealth,  that  the  fall  and  the  spoliation  followed. 
God  or  Mammon?  The  choice  was  clear,  the 
warning  was  plain.  As  one  looked  at  the  great 
pile,  so  noble  even  in  its  humiliation,  it  was  hard 
not  to  regret  the  vivid  life,  the  stately  splendour 
of  what  had  been.  Yet  the  broken  tower  and  the 
ruined  wall  had  their  message  too — ^that  not  by 
might  or  power  are  God's  victories  won. 


ST.  ANTHONY-TN-THE-FELLS 

<  Not  long  ago  I  visited  an  extremely  curious  and 
interesting  dmrch  in  the  north  of  England.  Its 
official  title  is  Cartmel  Fell;  but  the  church  is 
known  in  the  neighbourhood  by  the  more  romantic 
title  of  St.  Anthony-in-the-Fells.  It  stands  not 
far  from  Kendal,  in  a  wide  valley  sloping  to  the 
sea ;  a  pastoral  place,  full  of  rich  grass  meadows 
and  woodland,  and  with  old  picturesque  farm- 
houses— nnillioned,  stone-slated,  rough-cast  build- 
ings, with  round  chimney-stacks  and  wooden 
galleries — in  the  midst  of  no  less  venerable  and 
picturesque  outbuildings.  On  one  side  of  the 
valley  runs  a  great  limestone  blufif,  with  its  pale 
terraces  and  screes ;  on  the  other,  miniature  crags 
and  heathery  uplands. 

The  church  itself  is  beautifully  placed,  just 
where  the  low-lying  copses  and  pastures  break 
into  the  open  fell.  The  fields  slope  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  are  full  of  little  ridges  and  outcrops 
of  rock,  fringed  with  tiny  thickets.  Here  and 
there,  in  a  green  dingle,  a  spring  soaks  out 
among  rushes,  so  that  the  air  is  musical  with 
the  sound  of  dropping  waters.     The  building  it- 

29 


30  Along  the  Road 

self  is  low,  half -sunk  in  the  ground,  and  covered 
with  weather-stained  rough-cast.  The  tower  win- 
dows are  fitted  with  great  rough  slanting  slates. 
The  church  has  not  beauty  of  form  or  design,  but 
it  looks  like  a  living  thing  which  has  grown  up 
almost  naturally  out  of  the  soil  and  site.  From 
porch  to  transept  runs  a  low  bench  of  slate,  a 
seat  for  gossips  on  a  summer  Sabbath  morning, 
for  shepherds  to  sit  "  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic 
row."  Inside  it  is  the  quaintest  place  imaginable. 
In  the  big,  many-mullioned  east  window,  there 
is  a  congeries  of  old  stained  glass  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  which  seems  to  have  been  roughly 
handled,  and  pieced  together  without  much  refer- 
ence to  design.  Here  and  there  is  a  patch  of 
gorgeous  colour,  rich  red  or  azure,  a  crucifixion, 
a  mitred  saint  or  two,  St.  Leonard  with  his  chain, 
and  St.  Anthony  with  a  sportive  porker  hunched 
up  at  the  butt-end  of  his  crozier.  There  is  a 
scene  which  seems  to  be  a  confirmation,  and  all 
sorts  of  quaint  fragments,  such  as  an  altar  draped 
and  vested,  with  holy  vessels  set  out  upon  it,  with 
square  linen  cards  upon  the  chalices.  I  noticed 
in  the  vestry  a  heap  of  broken  bits  of  glass  of 
the  same  design,  of  finials  and  tabernacle-work, 
rude  but  spirited.  The  church  is  paved  with 
irregular  slabs  of  stone,  all  sloping  slightly  down- 
ward from  the  west,  following  the  dip  of  the  hill. 
A  rudely-painted  decalogue  hangs  on  the  eastern 
wall.  But  the  strangest  feature  of  the  church 
is  its  pews,  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  from  huge 


St.  Anthony-in-the-Fells         31 

deal  erections  like  loose  boxes,  to  little  gnarled 
oaken  desks  with  plain  finials.  Then,  in  order 
to  complete  its  unlikeness  to  any  other  place,  on 
one  side  of  the  church,  near  the  east,  is  a  real 
state  Jacobean  pew,  with  panelled  canopy  and 
pilasters;  while  on  the  other  side  stands  what 
Tiinst  have  been  a  screened  chantry,  finely-carved, 
and  with  rich  touches  of  colour  l^ing  on  mould- 
ing and  panel,  the  heads  of  the  saints  depicted 
having  evidently  been  carefully  deleted  with  some 
sharp-pointed  instrument,  in  an  ecstasy  of  Pro- 
testant devotion. 

There  stands  the  little  place,  a  real  historic 
document  from  first  to  last,  quaint,  interesting, 
curious,  and  beautiful  with  that  kind  of  beauty 
which  can  only  come  through  age  and  association. 
Of  course  it  will  have  to  be  restored,  and  very 
shortly  too— that  is  the  difficulty!  On  the  one 
hand  there  is  the  pity  of  destroying  so  strange 
an  accretion ;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  cannot 
be  called  a  seemly  sanctuary.  What  is  wanted 
is  the  most  delicate  sort  of  restoration,  trying  to 
keep  everything  interesting  and  characteristic, 
and  yet  making  the  place  warm  and  homelike 
and  solemn.  T\liat  of  course  is  to  be  feared  is 
that  enthusiastic  subscribers  and  an  ambitious 
architect  will  want  to  make  a  "  good  job  "  of  it, 
which  will  end  by  making  it  just  like  any  other 
church ;  for  that  is  the  sad  thing  about  our  Eng- 
lish churches — I  have  visited  a  great  many  of 
late — that  though  special  features  and  interest- 


32  Along  the  Road 

ing  details  are  often  carefully  preserved,  many 
churches  have  been  practically  rebuilt;  and  peo- 
ple do  not  seem  to  realise  that  a  new  church, 
however  closely  imitated  from  an  old  one,  has 
only  the  interest  of  a  copy,  and  is  a  skilful 
forgery  at  best;  while  it  has  lost  all  the  subtle 
beauty  of  age,  the  half-tones,  the  irregularities, 
the  dented  surfaces,  the  tiny  settlements,  the 
weather-stains,  which  make  the  old  building  so 
harmonious  and  delicate  a  thing,  even  though  the 
original  design  was  of  the  simplest  and  plainest. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  adjust  the  various  claims. 
There  is  the  perfectly  natural  and  laudable  de- 
sign to  make  a  church  a  credit  to  the  village;  to 
make  it  an  effective  and  comfortable  building; 
to  make  it  represent  a  definite  ecclesiastical 
tradition.  The  last  is  perhaps  the  most  perilous, 
because  the  tradition  is  not  a  natural  and  pro- 
gressive tradition,  but  a  revived  medisevalism,  and 
not  a  living  development;  yet  after  all,  when  all 
is  said,  I  supposed  that  the  instinct  to  sweep 
away,  as  debasing  and  offensive,  all  hint  of  what 
is  Georgian,  and  even  Jacobean,  out  of  churches, 
means  something,  and  is  in  its  way  historical,  or 
on  its  way  to  become  so.  But  meanwhile,  like 
the  gratitude  of  men,  it  leaves  the  philosopher 
mourning. 

Possibly  the  right  principles  to  keep  in  view 
in  restoring  a  church  are  these.  Everything 
which  is  solid,  costly,  and  of  good  workmanship 
ought  to  be  retained,  even  if  it  does  not  harmonise 


St.  Anthony-in-the-Fells  33 

with  our  present  taste,  whether  it  be  monument, 
window,  or  church  furniture.  The  most  that 
ought  to  be  permitted  should  be  to  move  an 
object  which  is  inharmonious,  or  supposed  to  be 
so,  from  a  conspicuous  to  a  less  conspicuous  posi- 
tion. But  even  if  the  workmanship  is  inferior, 
or  if  the  object,  whatever  it  be,  is  generally  con- 
demned, then  it  ought  in  any  case  to  be  carefully 
stored,  to  await  a  possible  revolution  of  taste. 

Early  in  the  last  century,  when  Skipton  Church 
was  restored,  its  splendid  Tudor  screen  was  con- 
demned as  barbarous  and  inconvenient.  An  old 
relative  of  my  own,  resident  in  the  town,  begged 
for  the  materials.  They  were  gladly  handed  over 
to  him.  He  stored  them  in  boxes  in  a  warehouse. 
Many  years  later,  when  the  ecclesiastical  revival 
had  taken  place,  and  the  church  was  once  more 
renovated,  there  were  loud  lamentations  on  the 
loss  of  the  screen.  He  produced  it  with  modest 
triumph,  and  it  was  joyfully  resuscitated.  But 
what  a  lesson  to  zealous  church-restorers,  who 
say  confidently  and  with  no  sort  of  misgivings, 
"  Of  course  that  frightful  object  must  go ! " 
3 


ANTIQUITIES  AND  AMENITIES 

I  HAD  been  travelling  in  Northumberland,  and  I 
had  spent  a  glorious  morning,  with  a  bright  sun 
and  a  cold  wind,  on  the  Roman  Wall.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  thing  to  stir  the  imagination.  It  runs 
over  hill  and  dale  by  crag  and  moor,  for  sixty 
miles,  from  sea  to  sea.  It  is  a  double  line  of 
fortification,  a  huge  stone  wall  to  the  north,  and 
a  great  earth-work  to  the  south.  Inside  the  lines, 
the  strip  varies  much  in  breadth.  Every  three 
miles  lies  a  large  fortified  camp,  with  towers  and 
guard-rooms,  praetorium  and  barracks.  At  every 
mile  is  a  smaller  fort,  with  guard-towers  every 
three  hundred  yards.  Many  of  these  are  gone, 
having  been  used  to  build  farms  and  walls  and 
to  make  roads.  But  many  of  them  exist  and 
have  been  excavated.  In  fact  the  whole  place 
was  one  vast  camp,  sixty  miles  long  and  a  few 
hundred  yards  broad;  no  one  knows  who  built 
it.  It  may  have  been  Hadrian,  it  may  have  been 
Severus.  It  has  been  sacked  at  least  once,  and 
repaired  again;  it  was  meant,  no  doubt,  to  keep 
off  the  warlike  and  ruthless  Picts,  and  to  make 
the  south  safe  from  their  forays. 

34 


Antiquities  and  Amenities         35 

I  had  spent  the  morning  at  Borcovicus,  a  great 
(iunp  on  the  very  bleakest  and  barest  part  of 
tlie  moors.  It  has  aH  been  excavated,  and  one 
cm  see  the  colonnade  where  the  daily  orders 
>\ere  read,  the  great  gateways,  with  the  pivot- 
holes  of  the  gates,  the  guard-rooms,  warmed  in 
some  cases  by  hot  air,  the  elaborate  arrangements 
for  getting  water,  and  for  the  disposal  of  sewage. 
The  custodian  had  just  disinterred  a  fine  bit  of 
sculpture,  the  bare  feet  of  a  Neptune,  one  resting 
on  a  dolphin's  back. 

The  whole  place  gave  one  the  sense  of  a  busy 
and  urgent  life,  lived  at  high  pressure,  and  with 
a  stern  purpose.  The  walls  are  of  massive 
quarried  stone,  and  the  labour  which  must  have 
been  involved  in  quarrying  and  carving  blocks 
and  columns  and  cornices,  and  dragging  them 
for  miles  over  the  moor,  gives  the  idea  of  a 
tremendous  command  of  human  energies.  But 
what  a  dreary  life  it  must  have  been  for 
Roman  soldiers  pent  up  in  this  high  hill-station! 
One  wonders  what  they  could  have  done  with 
themselves. 

There  is,  indeed,  at  Borcovicus,  outside  the 
wall,  a  theatre  hollowed  in  the  turf,  with  a 
special  gate  to  reach  it ;  and  I  daresay  the  place 
has  seen  some  foul  brutalities.  There  were,  no 
doubt,  skirmishes  from  time  to  time.  There  was 
hunting  in  the  wild  thicket-clad  ravines  for  the 
adventurous — the  tusks  of  wild  boars  are  often 
found  in  the  ruins — but  it  must  have  been  a  very 


36  Along  the  Road 

unpleasant  life !  The  elaborate  arrangements  for 
warming  the  houses  show  how  much  the  Romans 
must  have  dreaded  the  cold  up  there  in  the 
snow-clad  winter. 

We  went  on  to  Chesters,  where  there  is  a 
museum  of  curiosities  found  in  the  excavations. 
There  are  a  few  beautiful  things  of  bronze  and 
enamel,  evidently  brought  from  Rome.  But  the 
native  products  are  rude  enough — altars,  tombs, 
sacred  sculptures.  Even  here,  there  is  a  touch 
of  human  joy  and  sorrow  which  makes  itself  felt 
across  the  centuries.  There  is  a  votive  altar  to 
Silvanus,  set  up  by  "  the  huntsmen  of  Banna," 
there  is  an  affectionate  inscription  to  a  young 
freedman,  a  Moor,  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
and  his  graceful  figure  is  depicted  reclining  above 
the  inscription,  which  says  that  his  former  master, 
Numerianus,  followed  him  with  grief  to  the  tomb. 
There  is  an  elaborate  monument  to  the  British 
wife  of  a  young  officer,  who  lavished  loving  care 
on  her  monument,  himself  a  native  of  Palmyra. 
And  then  there  are  all  the  signs  of  life  and 
activity — arrowheads,  swords,  spears,  a  curious 
leather  shoe,  with  elaborate  straps,  all  the  debris 
of  the  daily  round.  Through  the  intense  interest 
of  the  whole  there  falls  a  mournful  shadow,  the 
shadow  of  vanished  human  endeavour,  the  old 
terror  of  war  and  violence.  It  was  with  a 
strange  sense  of  pathos  and  wonder  that  I  turned 
away.  The  river  ran  sparkling  among  its  shingle, 
the  woods  rustled  in  the  cool  breeze;  and  over 


Antiquities  and  Amenities        37 

the  hill,  to  left  and  right,  one  could  see  the  deep 
lines  of  the  vallum  and  the  broken  base  of  the 
wall,  with  the  thorn-trees  rooting  in  it,  all  so 
peaceful  now,  in  the  track  of  ancient  wars,  fought 
out  fifteen  centuries  ago. 

And  then,  in  order  that  my  day  might  not  be 
too  happy,  too  sweet  to  be  wholesome,  Fate 
dropped  the  least  drop  of  bitter  in  the  cup,  a 
dash  of  incivility;  there  is  no  more  tonic  drug 
1  lian  that,  because  it  teaches  a  man  that  he  must 
de[)end  solely  on  his  ingratiating  merits  for 
favour,  and  cannot  win  it  by  the  coat  he  wears 
— though  it  is  true  that  my  coat  is  not  a  very 
impressive  one — or  by  the  money  he  can  jingle  in 
his  pocket.  These  Northumbrians,  too,  are  so  ex- 
traordinarily kindly  and  courteous,  in  a  dignified 
way,  that  they  spoil  one.  As  a  rule  they  talk  to 
one  graciously  and  smilingly,  as  if  half  honoured, 
lijilf  amused  by  the  rencontre,  with  that  pleasant 
broken  burr,  in  the  softest  of  voices,  with  a 
peculiar  silky  texture  which  caresses  the  ear; 
there  is  no  servility  of  deference,  but  an  equal 
and  good-humoured  courtesy,  as  between  friends 
and  brothers. 

Now,  however,  it  was  very  different;  just  as 
I  i)assed  the  stone  gate-posts  of  a  grange,  I  saw 
a  shepherd  driving  his  flock  out  of  a  field  hard 
by.  My  way  lay  to  the  village  of  Four  Stones, 
across  the  hill.  Just  where  I  saw  the  shepherd, 
there  was  an  uncompromising  road  which  went 
solidly   over    the   bluff.     But   on   the   map   was 


38  Along  the  Road 

marked  a  pleasant  grass  track  a  little  farther 
on.  Now,  I  have  always  regarded  a  shepherd  as 
a  lesser  kind  of  angel.  When  I  have  talked  to 
them  before,  they  have  spoken  in  kind,  high 
voices,  as  of  men  who  have  struggled  with  winds 
on  weary  mountain-heads,  and  they  have  had  a 
remote  and  secluded  look,  as  of  men  who  have 
not  much  commerce  with  their  fellows.  But 
they  have  always  seemed  to  me  men  of  patience 
and  gentleness — and  indeed  if  the  care  of  a  flock 
of  hill-sheep  does  not  give  a  man  a  chance 
of  becoming  both,  there  is  no  discipline  that 
will! 

But  this  shepherd  was  a  pale,  shrewish-looking 
man,  alert  and  aggressive,  with  bushy  whiskers 
and  eyebrows,  and,  what  disconcerted  me  most, 
a  strange  resemblance  to  Mr.  Ruskin  about  him, 
which  gave  me  that  odd  feeling  of  knowing  the 
man  and  being  familiar  with  his  thought. 

I  said  to  him,  "  Is  there  a  footpath  a  little 
farther  on  over  the  hill,  to  Four  Stones  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
quick,  bustling  air,  as  if  he  thought  it  imperti- 
nent of  me  to  ask  him  a  question,  and  made  no 
reply.     I  repeated  my  inquiry. 

"  I  hear  ye,"  he  said. 

I  was  vexed  by  this,  and  repeated  my  question 
again. 

"  This  is  the  road  to  Four  Stones,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  T  know  that.  Here  is  the 
sign-post!      AYhat   I   want  to   know   is   whether 


Antiquities  and  Amenities        39 

there  is  a  footpath  farther  on.  There  is  one 
marked  on  the  map." 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  about  your  map,"  he 
said,  wrinkling  up  his  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  but  is  there  a  footpath  over  the  hill?" 
I  said. 

"  I  ^m  thinking  there  '11  be  none,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  do  you  know  there  is  none?  "  I  said. 

"  I  tell  ye  I  know  there  is  none,"  he  said, 
raising  his  voice  angrily. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  think  you  might  have  said 
so  before;  and  I  will  tell  yon  something,  and 
that  is  that  you  are  the  first  man  I  have  found 
in  Northumberland  who  is  rude  to  strangers." 

He  gave  me  an  ugly  look,  and  I  think  he  would 
have  liked  to  hit  at  me  with  his  stick  if  he  had 
dared.  I  went  off  along  the  road,  having  shot 
my  bolt.  A  man  does  not  like  being  told  in  his 
own  country  that  he  is  rude  to  strangers.  Even 
the  Carinthian  boor,  who  we  know  shuts  his  door 
on  a  houseless  stranger,  would  be  accessible  to 
such  a  taunt.  A  long  way  up  the  road  I  turned 
and  looked  back,  and  he  was  still  standing  where 
I  had  left  him,  looking  evilly  after  me.  The  man 
was  a  Pict,  no  doubt,  and  it  was  in  his  blood  to 
resent  intrusion.  I  dare  say  his  ancestors  had 
had  brushes  fifteen  centuries  ago  with  well-fed 
Roman  soldiers;  and  he  did  not  like  strangers 
who  asked  questions  about  the  locality;  he  felt 
that  they  meant  mischief,  and,  I  daresay,  thanked 
God  that  he  was  rid  of  a  knave. 


40  Along  the  Road 

But  fortune  was  on  my  side,  and  was  de- 
termined, evidently,  to  vindicate  Northumbrian 
courtesy.  As  I  came  down  into  the  village  of 
Four  Stones,  a  dreary  hamlet  on  the  bank  of 
the  Tyne,  with  a  tall-chimneyed  factory  and  heaps 
of  scoria?,  I  asked  a  little  eager  man,  with  a 
small  white  beard,  the  way  to  the  station. 

"  It 's  hard  by  here,"  he  said  breathlessly,  "  I 
will  walk  with  you  and  show  it  you."  We  walked 
together  and  discoursed  of  the  weather.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  we  want  rain ;  the  river  is  low,  and  the 
lands  are  burnt  up;  but  we  may  be  thankful  that 
it  is  better  here  than  in  the  south."  I  told  him 
that  I  came  from  the  south,  and  that  the  pas- 
tures were  all  burnt  brown.  "  Indeed  ?  "  he  said, 
with  much  concern,  "  Yes,  it 's  been  a  hard 
summer  down  south,  no  doubt."  By  this  time 
we  were  close  to  the  station,  and  he  pointed  it 
out  to  me.  I  asked  if  there  was  a  train  soon 
to  Gilsland.  "  Indeed,  there  is,"  he  said,  and 
whipped  out  a  watch,  "  in  thirty-two  minutes, 
precisely."  "  Can  I  walk  along  the  river,"  I  said, 
"  till  the  train  comes  in?  "  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  by 
all  means ;  it 's  a  nice  walk.  I  '11  show  you 
how  to  get  there.  I  '11  walk  with  you  and  put 
you  in  your  way."  He  whisked  round,  and  led 
me  to  a  level-crossing.  "  Y"ou  may  go  through 
here,"  he  said.  ^'  You  have  twenty-nine  minutes  " 
— he  plucked  out  his  watch.  ^^  Now,  mind,"  he 
said,  with  an  uplifted  forefinger,  ^^  the  express 
runs  through  first — don't  you  be  alarmed  if  you 


Antiquities  and  Amenities        41 

see  it.  Your  train — that's  the  slow  one — runs 
in  eight  minutes  behind — a  pleasant  walk  to 
you ! " 

This  energetic  and  friendly  man  set  me  right 
with  the  world.  I  felt  welcomed,  introduced  to 
the  country,  made  free  of  its  pleasant  places. 
There  was  no  Pictish  blood  in  my  white-bearded 
friend!  When  I  came  back  to  the  level-crossing, 
he  was  waiting  for  me.  "  Have  you  enjoyed  your 
walk?"  he  said;  **  that 's  right— and  now  to  the 
station !  The  express  will  just  be  coming  through. 
Have  a  care  of  it  as  you  cross  the  line." 


ADDINGTON 

How  well  I  remember,  on  a  hot  September  even- 
ing nearly  thirty  years  ago,  how  the  carriage  in 
which  four  travellers  were  driving — all  of  them 
weary  and  one  of  them  considerably  awed — 
passed  in  at  a  lodge-gate,  leaving  suburban  villas 
and  rows  of  brick-built  villas  behind,  into  the 
cool,  pine-scented  gloom  of  a  great  park.  What 
a  domain  it  seemed  !  We  passed  between  heathery 
hills,  among  high  thickets  of  rhododendrons,  by 
a  lake,  and  then  out  into  a  spacious  expanse  of 
grass  with  clumps  of  oaks  and  beeches,  and  saw 
below  us  the  long  facade  of  a  huge  stone-built 
house  with  a  stately  air  of  spacious  dignity  about 
it.     That  was  my  first  sight  of  Addington. 

Moreover,  I  had  the  quite  inexplicable  convic- 
tion, which  darted  in  my  mind  as  we  drove,  that 
we  should  come  to  live  there.  How  soon  and  how 
unexpectedly  that  conviction  was  fulfilled! 

The  party  consisted  of  my  father  and  mother, 
my  elder  sister  and  myself.  Archbishop  Tait  was 
lying  ill ;  but  he  had  rallied  so  often  from  more 
serious  illnesses,  that  few  even  of  those  about 
him  realised  that  he  was  dying.  *  He  had  ex- 

42 


Addington  43 

j)re8sed  a  wish  to  see  my  father,  and  he  had  in 
Ills  mind  a  belief  that  my  father  would  then,  or 
ultimately,  succeed  him.  "  I  am  worn  out,"  he 
had  written  about  that  time,  adding:  "  the  Bishop 
of  Truro  will  come  forward  and  do  a  great  work." 

On  that  occasion  I  never  saw  him,  though  he 
sent  me  and  my  sister  an  affectionate  message. 
We  stayed  there  several  days;  the  present  Arch- 
bishop was  then  acting  as  chaplain.  It  was  a 
quiet  family  party,  and  we  were  all  made  entirely 
at  home. 

The  house  had  been  bought  for  the  See  at  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  Man- 
ners-Sutton  was  the  first  Archbishop  who  lived 
there.  He,  together  with  Howley,  Sumner,  Long- 
ley,  and  Tait,  were  all  buried  in  the  churchyard, 
and  the  present  Archbishop  has  just  put  up  a 
beautiful  monument  to  their  memory  there. 
There  was  an  old  archiepiscopal  palace  at  Croy- 
don, which  still  exists,  with  Laud's  woodwork 
in  the  chapel,  now,  I  believe,  an  Anglican  con- 
vent. But  it  was  an  inconvenient  house,  on  low- 
lying  and  damp  ground,  and  even  then  Croydon 
was  beginning  to  spread  round  about  it.  Ad- 
dington was  built  by  a  Lord  Mayor,  Trecothick 
by  name.  It  had  been  a  royal  manor,  held  by 
some  quaint  tenure  of  an  annual  present  to  the 
Sovereign  of  a  dish  of  sweet  almond  paste!  The 
house  was  largely  added  to  when  Archbishop 
Manners-Sutton  went  to  live  there.  The  ground 
falls  so  rapidly  that  one  drives  up  in  front  of 


44  Along  the  Road 

what  is  practically  the  first  floor.  It  has  no 
great  architectural  merit,  but  it  is  a  stately  and 
comfortable  house  with  many  large  rooms,  and 
one  of  the  most  noble  cedars  on  the  lawn  that 
I  have  ever  seen. 

The  old  Croydon  archiepiscopal  estate  passed 
eventually  into  the  hands  of  the  Ecclesiastical 
Commissioners,  and  has  become  immensely  valua- 
ble; the  unearned  increment  does  not  go  to  the 
Archbishop,  but  into  the  common  fund  of  the 
Commission.  That  seems  an  equitable  enough 
arrangement  where  a  merely  ecclesiastical  per- 
sonage is  concerned ! 

I  cannot  honestly  say  that  it  ever  seemed  to 
me  a  very  appropriate  house  for  an  Archbishop. 
It  was  convenient  enough,  being  only  thirteen 
miles  from  Lambeth,  but  its  great  woods,  full  of 
winding  drives  laid  out  by  Howley,  its  enormous 
stables  and  gardens,  the  beautiful  and  various 
scenery  of  the  park,  are  all  too  much  in  the  style 
of  the  grand  seigneur.  The  life  lived  there  by 
the  first  Archbishops  was  quiet  enough.  Arch- 
bishop Howley's  daily  letters  just  covered  the 
bottom  of  a  china  bowl  which  stood  in  the  hall; 
Archbishop  Sumner  used  to  make  charming  water- 
colour  drawings  of  trees  in  the  park.  My  father 
became  deeply  devoted  to  the  place;  but  he  had, 
whence  derived  I  know  not,  all  the  instincts  of 
a  territorial  magnate,  and  some  of  his  happiest 
days  were  spent  in  strolling  about  the  woods 
with  the  bailiff,  settling  which  trees  were  to  be 


Addington  45 

cut  down.  But  my  father  did  not  enjoy  it 
selfishly;  he  continued  the  hospitable  custom  of 
the  Taits,  and  issued  a  large  number  of  tickets 
of  admission  to  the  park  to  neighbours  and  resi- 
dents, besides  giving  free  leave  to  parties  to 
picnic  there.  But  it  used  to  vex  him  sorely  to 
find  how  visitors  used  to  leave  paper  about,  carry 
away  masses  of  flowers,  and  even  dig  up  ferns 
aud  daffodils  for  their  own  gardens.  I  remember 
how  once  he  heard  an  unusual  noise  in  the  garden 
outside  his  library,  and  on  going  to  the  window, 
found  a  huge  picnic  party  who  had  invaded  the 
private  garden,  were  laying  their  lunch  on  the 
lawn,  and  looking  in  at  the  ground-floor  windows ! 

There  was  a  chapel  there  which  my  father 
beautified  with  woodwork  and  frescoes,  and  in 
which  he  took  great  delight.  Indeed,  so  much 
attached  did  he  become  to  the  place,  and  so  im- 
portant did  he  consider  its  mixture  of  seclusion 
and  convenience,  that  I  have  heard  him  arguing 
the  case  for  its  retention,  and  convincing  himself 
by  his  own  eloquence  of  its  advantages,  to  such 
an  extent  that  he  came  to  the  triumphant  con- 
clusion that  if  either  Lambeth  or  Addington 
must  be  given  up,  it  must  be  Lambeth  rather 
than  Addington. 

Archbishop  Temple,  however,  came  to  the  oppo- 
site conclusion.  The  house  was  sold,  as  soon  as 
he  succeeded,  for  a  very  inadequate  price,  to  a 
Mr.  English,  who  enlarged  and  greatly  beautified 
the  house;  and  owing  to  his  decease  it  is  again 


46  Along  the  Road 

in  the  market.     It  will  doubtless  ultimately  be 
divided  and  cut  up  for  building  land. 

I  do  not  think  that,  much  as  he  loved  Adding- 
ton,  my  father  was  ever  very  well  there.  His 
temperament  demanded  activity  rather  than  re- 
pose. At  Addington,  though  his  work  was 
terribly  heavy,  he  used  to  write  a  little  at  his 
beloved  Cyprian,  and  he  greatly  enjoyed  riding 
over  the  quiet  country  which  stretched  away  to 
the  south.  But  my  impression  of  him  at  Adding- 
ton is  that  he  was  more  often  than  not  depressed 
and  anxious.  Away  from  the  stir  of  the  London 
life,  and  with  more  leisure  to  think,  he  used  to 
feel  the  stress  of  the  great  problems  with  which 
he  was  confronted,  and  his  own  fancied  inade- 
quacy to  deal  with  them.  Yet  the  house  is  in- 
separably connected  with  him  in  my  memories. 
I  can  see  him  with  his  cloak  and  soft  hat,  pacing 
up  and  down  on  a  sunny,  frosty  morning  in  the 
garden  terrace,  looking  up  at  the  great  cedars 
which  he  loved.  I  can  see  him  dressed  for  riding, 
feeding  the  horses  with  bread  and  sugar  at  the 
door,  or  strolling  on  Sunday  with  his  canvas  bag 
of  broken  crusts  for  the  swans  on  the  pool,  and 
a  Christian  Year  in  his  hand,  which  he  would 
read  aloud  to  the  party,  sitting  on  a  heathery 
bank  in  the  wood.  Most  clearly  of  all,  I  can  see 
him  in  his  purple  cassock  after  evening  chapel, 
sitting  down  to  write  endless  letters  till  one  or 
two  in  the  morning,  looking  up  with  a  smile  as 
we  came  to  say  good-night,  twitching  the  glasses 


Addington  47 

off  his  nose  to  enjoy  a  few  minutes  of  leisurely 
talk.  But  for  all  that  it  is  not  to  me,  as  I  say,  a 
place  of  very  happy  memories,  because  my  father's 
spirits  tended  to  be  low  there;  and  I  never  knew 
any  one  whose  moods,  however  carefully  he 
guarded  them,  so  affected  the  spirits  of  the  circle 
by  which  he  was  surrounded. 

He  was  very  hospitable,  and  there  was  a  con- 
stant stream  of  visitors  there,  from  high  officials 
of  Church  and  State  to  relations  and  family 
friends.  There  used  to  be  dinner-parties  of  pleas- 
ant neighbours,  children's  theatricals,  toboggan- 
ing-parties,  and  all  the  stir  of  a  big  country  house. 
But  I  never  somehow  felt  it  to  be  very  real;  we 
were  simple  professional  people,  and  there  seemed 
an  artificial  air  of  state  about  it  all.  But  I  do 
not  think  my  father  ever  felt  that;  he  had  a 
natural  princeliness  both  of  mind  and  manner, 
and  Addington  seemed  a  fit  setting  for  his  per- 
fectly unaffected  greatness.  He  took  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  people  on  the  estate,  and  his 
Christmas  Day  sermons,  when  he  reviewed  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  the  village  for  the  past  year, 
used  to  have  an  extraordinarily  affecting  quality 
of  simple  and  homely  emotion. 

The  new  palace  at  Canterbury,  built  under  the 
auspices  of  Archbishop  Temple,  is  a  singular  con- 
trast to  Addington.  It  is  an  ingenious  adaptation 
of  an  old  house,  with  some  additions;  but  it  is 
shut  in  by  buildings,  close  under  the  Cathedral ; 
it  has  no  stables,  and  a  tiny  garden.     My  father 


48  Along  the  Road 

used  to  maintain  that  the  Archbishop  was  better 
away  from  Canterbury,  and  indeed,  even  on  his 
own  accession  to  the  See,  I  believe  he  actually 
paid  a  customary  fee  to  make  himself  free  of  the 
place — the  fact  being  that  in  old  times  the  enter- 
tainment of  an  Archbishop  with  his  suite  at 
Canterbury  was  so  serious  an  affair,  from  the 
expense  entailed,  that  matters  had  to  be  finan- 
cially accommodated ! 

Archbishop  Temple  behaved,  I  remember,  with 
extraordinary  generosity,  when  my  father  died. 
He  took  over  the  whole  contents  of  Addington 
by  valuation,  as  we  had  done,  though  he  was  not 
legally  bound  to  do  so,  and  had  no  thought  ex- 
cept to  make  things  easier  for  us.  The  trans- 
ference of  the  See-house  to  Canterbury  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  city  and  the  diocese, 
and  it  no  doubt  has  some  advantages,  though 
it  necessitates  the  Archbishop  having  to  pass 
from  one  official  life  to  another,  instead  of  giv- 
ing him  some  much-needed  quiet  and  seclusion 
after  the  ceaseless  engagements  of  the  London 
life. 

But  the  giving  up  of  Addington  is  symbolical 
of  more  than  that.  In  my  father's  time  it  was 
simply  a  survival  of  a  state  of  affairs  which 
could  not  have  continued.  It  marks  the  altera- 
tion from  the  position  of  the  Archbishop,  who 
was  in  the  days  of  Manners-Sutton  a  great  official 
of  State,  with  few  duties  and  responsibilities,  for 
whom  the  setting  of  a  great  country  house  among 


Addington  49 

woods  and  gardens  was  a  perfectly  natural 
appanage,  to  the  position  which  he  now  holds, 
of  the  superintendence  of  enormous  interests  and 
activities,  combining  with  the  duties  of  a  huge 
department  of  religious  and  social  life. 

My  father's  unbounded  interest  and  vitality, 
the  way  in  which  he  threw  himself  into  the 
smallest  details  of  his  life,  made  it  just  possible 
for  him  to  continue  the  two  positions.  But  the 
old  order  has  here  rightly  given  place  to  the  new, 
and  it  cannot  be  restored.  We  may  regret  the 
loss  of  picturesqueness,  even  of  dignity;  but  a 
Bishop  is  no  longer  a  territorial  magnate;  his 
income  can  no  longer  be  used  simply  in  keeping 
up  feudal  state.  He  needs  it,  if  he  needs  it, 
for  hospitality,  and  to  give  him  the  power  of 
initiating  and  supporting  religious  enterprises, 
and  not  for  mere  magnificence.  His  dignity  must 
be  the  dignity  which  is  earned  by  sympathy,  and 
efficiency,  and  commanding  qualities  of  wisdom 
and  high-mi ndedness,  and  can  no  longer  be  the 
mere  reflection  of  mediaeval  state  and  lordliness. 


BRENT  KNOLL 

It  was  on  a  fine,  fresh  January  morning  that  we 
raced  merrily  over  the  wide,  alluvial  plain  of 
Somersetshire,  once  a  vast  salt-marsh,  to  the  great 
green,  high-standing  bulk  of  Brent  Knoll.  It  was 
a  very  familiar  object  to  me  in  my  school-days, 
the  knoll,  as  I  went  and  returned  to  Eton  or  to 
Truro  by  the  Great  Western  Railway.  I  used  to 
look  out  for  it  with  pleasant  curiosity.  Seen 
from  the  line  it  consisted  of  a  high,  round  head, 
with  the  line  of  ancient  earthworks  at  the  top 
plainly  visible,  and  below  that  a  steep  plateau, 
with  an  almost  geometrically  flat  summit,  the 
side  of  it  intersected  by  narrow,  parallel  hedged 
fields  and  orchards,  running  up  from  the  strag- 
gling village  at  the  base.  To-day  we  came  to  it 
from  the  north,  and  halted  first  at  East  Brent, 
where  there  is  a  big,  perpendicular  church  with 
a  fine  spire  and  a  large  rectory  hard  by,  whence 
for  many  years  Archdeacon  Denison  issued  his 
ecclesiastical  lightnings.  I  remember  the  little, 
fiery,  humorous  man  well.  He  was  a  brother  of 
the  Speaker  Denison,  the  moving  spirit  of  the 
Speaker's  Commentary,    I  saw  the  Archdeacon  at 

50 


Brent  Knoll  51 

a  Congress,  fleliverinj?  one  of  his  shrill  diatribes, 
a  jaunty  little  figure,  looking  as  though  he  were 
made  of  some  irrepressible  india-rubber,  with  ac- 
(ive  gaitered  legs,  a  very  short  apron,  and  the  air 
of  a  militant  cock-sparrow.  His  si)eech  was  a  lively 
one,  full  of  good-tempered  animosity  and  pre- 
posterous exaggeration.  His  denunciations  were 
listened  to  with  affectionate  amusement,  while 
he  threatened  the  impenitent  world  with  disaster 
and  decadence,  a  sort  of  clerical  Boythorn. 

The  church  itself  is  a  fine  one,  with  a  quaint 
»lacobean  gallery,  the  walls  much  disfigured  by 
crumbling  modern  sentimental  frescoes.  The  only 
thing  I  regretted  was  that  a  charming  old  brazen 
sconce  lay  neglected  in  a  gallery  pew.  Then  we 
sped  round  to  the  village  of  Brent  Knoll,  and 
there,  in  a  delicious  combe  with  hanging  woods, 
we  ate  our  sandwiches  by  a  hedgerow  filled  with 
hart's-tongue  fern,  while  a  sociable  robin  hopped 
round  us  and  loudly  claimed  his  share  of  the 
meal.  His  wish  was  gratified;  but  fate  came 
upon  him  in  the  form  of  a  gaunt  black  hen,  who 
burst  through  a  gate,  and  charged  stamping 
down,  to  take  her  share  of  the  plunder. 

We  strolled  up  to  the  other  church  hard  by, 
restored  out  of  all  interest,  with  the  exception 
of  a  charming  Caroline  monument,  carved  and 
painted,  in  three  panels.  In  the  centre  is  a  jolly, 
complacent  cavalier,  with  slashed  and  ruffled 
sleeves  of  dainty  blue  and  white,  and  a  fine  red 
gold-fringed  sword-sash;  below  are  displayed  an 


52  Along  the  Road 

ensign  and  a  drum ;  on  either  side  of  him  are  his 
two  buxom  and  plump  wives;  one  blue-eyed  and 
smiling,  with  a  great  flapping  hat ;  the  other  more 
demure,  in  a  delicate  brown  kirtle.  Here,  too,  I 
mourned  to  see  a  splendid  bit  of  Jacobean  iron- 
work, which  must  once  have  sustained  a  big 
chandelier,  stored  uselessly  in  the  vestry.  Who 
can  fathom  the  mysteries  of  ecclesiastical  purism? 

This  done,  we  addressed  ourselves  to  the  ascent. 
In  half  an  hour  we  were  standing  in  the  tumbled 
grassy  earthworks  of  the  camp  at  the  top.  These 
great  bastioned  British  forts  are  rather  a  mys- 
tery. They  can  never  have  been  inhabited,  as 
there  is  no  possibility  of  obtaining  water,  except 
by  dragging  it  up  the  hillside — unless  the  rain- 
water was  stored  in  a  pool.  They  must  only 
have  been  used  as  camps  of  refuge  in  times  of 
danger,  for  the  safety  of  women  and  children 
and  other  live-stock — and  what  dreary,  filthy 
places  they  must  have  been! 

The  view  was  stupendous ;  to  the  west  were  the 
shadowy  Quantocks,  with  a  great  tidal  river 
broadening  to  the  sea.  The  hills  of  Wales  were 
dim  in  the  haze  beyond  the  Channel,  and  there 
were  several  big  steamers  rolling  and  dipping 
out  to  the  open  sea.  To  the  south  rose  the  Men- 
dips,  beyond  the  great  green  flat;  to  the  north, 
Weston-super-Mare  lay  out  on  the  hillside,  with 
its  long  lines  of  trim  villas,  and  the  grey-green 
ridge  of  the  Bleadon  Hills.  In  the  calm  after- 
noon we  could  hear  the  crowing  of  cocks  far 


Brent  Knoll  53 

below,  and  tlie  horns  of  motors  racing  along  the 
Bridgwater  road. 

It  is  good  for  the  body  to  climb  the  steep 
slopes  and  breathe  the  pure  air;  it  is  good  for 
the  mind  to  see  the  map  of  England  thus  fairly 
unrolled  before  the  eye;  and  it  is  good  for  the 
soul,  too,  to  see  the  world  lie  extended  at  one's 
feet.  How  difficult  it  is  to  analyse  the  vague  and 
poignant  emotions  which  then  and  thus  arise! 
There  is  first  a  sense  of  history;  one  thinks  of 
our  rude  and  brutish  forefathers,  skulking  like 
conies  into  their  hill-burrows  at  the  sight  of  the 
column  of  Roman  legionaries,  with  clanking 
horses  and  glittering  spears.  One  has  a  sense, 
too,  of  how  the  world  was  subdued  and  replen- 
ished, and  how  the  great  salt-marsh  by  slow 
degrees  became  the  rich  pasture  with  all  its 
dykes  and  homesteads.  And  then  there  comes, 
too,  a  sense  of  the  continuity  and  solidarity  of 
life.  One  thinks  of  the  slow  tide  of  humanity 
ebbing  and  flowing  in  the  great  fields,  and  set- 
ting homewards  to  the  village  street,  with  its 
smoke  going  up  in  the  still  air.  What  do  all 
these  little  restless  lives  mean,  so  closely  knit 
to  each  other  and  to  oneself,  and  all  so  sharply 
separate?  One  thinks,  too,  of  the  romance  of  it 
all;  the  boy  and  girl  playmates  of  the  village 
green,  the  lovers  wandering  on  June  evenings 
among  the  thickets  in  the  steep  combe;  then  the 
lives  of  slow  labour  and  domestic  care,  the  genera- 
tion renewing  itself;  and  then  the  chair  in  the 


54  Along  the  Road 

sunny  cottage  garden,  and  last  of  all  the  church- 
yard and  the  tolling  bell.  One  thinks,  too,  of  the 
old  sailor,  reared,  perhaps,  long  ago  in  the  village 
at  one's  feet,  as  he  plies  up  and  down  the  Channel, 
sees  the  breezy  top  of  the  knoll,  and  remembers 
the  boyish  rambles  in  the  old  careless  days  at 
home.  No  one  can,  I  think,  avoid  such  thoughts 
as  these,  and  though  one  cannot  dwell  on  them 
for  long,  yet  it  is  good  to  let  them  dart  thus  into 
the  mind,  as  one  sits  on  the  grassy  bastion,  with 
the  wind  rustling  past,  and  the  windows  of  far-off 
farms  glittering  in  the  haze  of  the  wide  plain. 

But  the  day  began  to  decline,  and  we  made 
our  way,  in  a  smiling  silence,  down  the  steep 
paths;  how  soon  we  were  at  the  head  of  the 
village  street,  among  clustered  orchards  and  deep- 
littered  byres;  and  the  sun  began  to  set  as  we 
came  to  East  Brent;  the  mist  rose  up  in  airy 
wefts  among  the  elms;  the  black  shadow  of  the 
knoll  crept  swiftly  out  across  the  plain ;  and  soon 
we  w^ere  flying  homewards  in  the  dusk,  with  a 
low  orange  sunset  glaring  and  smouldering  in  the 
west,  by  quiet  lanes,  with  tall,  high-chimneyed 
farms  standing  up  among  bare  elms,  the  cattle 
loitering  home  in  the  muddy  track,  and  great 
white  fowls  going  solemnly  up  one  by  one  into 
the  boarded  roost. 

What  a  glad  thing  life  would  be  if  it  were  but 
made  up  of  such  days,  and  if  it  could  last  thus! 
It  seemed  terrible  out  there  in  the  quiet  dusk 
to   think   of  the   men   and   women   immured   in 


Brent  Knoll  55 

crowded  cities  and  in  little  slovenly  rooms.  But 
even  so,  one  knew  that  it  was  life  that  one  de- 
sired, life  and  work  and  companionship.  These 
vague  reveries,  so  full  of  sunset  light  and  slumber- 
ous sound — the  wind  in  the  orchard  boughs,  the 
trickle  of  the  stream  through  the  grass-grown 
sluice — are  sweet  enough,  but  unsubstantial  too. 
They  can  be  but  an  interlude  in  business  and 
care  and  daily  labour.  One  would  not,  if  one 
could,  fly  like  Ariel  on  the  bat's  back  and  swing 
in  the  trailing  flower.  How  one  would  crave  for 
the  stir,  the  language,  the  very  scent  and  heat 
of  life!  But  it  is  good,  for  all  that,  to  get  away 
at  times  above  and  beyond  it  all,  as  in  an  island 
above  the  rushing  tide;  to  feel  for  a  moment  that 
we  are  larger  than  we  know,  and  that  the  goal 
of  our  pilgrimage  is  not  in  sight.  To  live  in  the 
past  and  in  the  future;  to  perceive  that  there  is 
a  deep  and  gracious  design  in  and  beyond  these 
mysteries  of  light  and  colour,  of  sound  and  silence. 
It  is  thus,  I  think,  that  we  press  for  an  instant 
close  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  deepest  secret  of  life,  the  symbols  of  eter- 
nity, and  even  of  the  glory  that  shall  be  revealed 
to  us,  if  we  are  patient  and  hopeful  and  wise. 

That  was  what  the  green  head  of  Brent  Knoll 
said  to  me  this  day,  rising  steeply  among  its 
rough  pastures  and  leafless  thickets,  with  the  pale 
and  wintry  sunshine  over  all,  and  the  smoke 
drifting  uj)  into  the  stillness  from  the  clustered 
village  at  its  feet. 


MR.  GLADSTONE 

Enough  has  been  said  and  written  about  Mr. 
Gladstone's  political  position  and  ecclesiastical 
views !  I  shall  not  attempt  to  touch  upon  either, 
but  I  should  like  to  draw,  so  to  speak,  a  rough 
sketch  of  my  impression  of  his  personality.  I 
met  him  a  good  many  times,  and  saw  him  under 
rather  exceptional  circumstances;  and  I  formed 
a  very  definite  impression  of  him.  It  may  be  a 
wrong  impression;  it  may  be  that  I  only  saw 
him,  as  it  were,  in  certain  attitudes;  but  it  is  a 
definite  point  of  view,  and  may  not  be  without 
interest. 

My  first  sight  of  him  was  when  I  was  an  Eton 
boy;  it  was  the  custom  for  persons  of  eminence, 
instead  of  taking  their  places  in  chapel  with  the 
congregation,  to  walk  in  at  the  end  of  the  pro- 
cession with  the  Provost.  The  rule  was  for  the 
boys  to  remain  seated  until  the  entrance  of  the 
dignitaries,  and  then  to  rise  to  their  feet.  When 
Provost  Goodford  made  his  appearance — he  was 
himself  a  picturesque  figure,  a  small  man,  with 
a  halting  walk,  in  a  voluminous  surplice,  with 
very  high  collars,  such  as  were  afterwards  asso- 

56 


Mr.  Gladstone  57 

ciated  with  Mr.  Gladstone  himself,  and  a  great 
"  choker  "  tied  in  a  large  irregular  bow — side  by 
side  with  him  came  a  sturdy  figure  in  a  grey 
summer  frock-coat,  and  carrying  a  white  hat,  with 
a  rose  in  his  button-hole.  The  Provost  motioned 
to  him  to  go  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  stalls, 
and  with  a  low  bow,  Mr.  Gladstone — T  recognised 
him  at  once — complied.  I  sat  close  beneath  him, 
and  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  him.  I  remember 
his  pallor,  the  dark  glitter  of  his  eyes,  and,  above 
all,  the  extreme  reverence  he  displayed  through- 
out the  service.  That  impression  is  as  distinct 
to  me  as  on  the  day  I  received  it,  thirty-seven 
years  ago. 

In  later  days  I  met  him  at  Eton  and  at  Lam- 
beth, at  parties  and  privately.  I  spent  a  Sunday 
at  Hawarden  about  1887,  and  had  a  long  talk 
with  him  while  walking  in  the  park.  The  late 
Lord  Acton  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  I  was 
present  at  a  discussion  which  took  place  between 
the  two  great  men  on  some  minute  historical 
point.  Mr.  Gladstone,  it  seemed  to  me  at  the 
time,  knew  all  about  the  subject  that  had  been 
known,  but  Lord  Acton  appeared  to  know  all  that 
could  ever  be  known,  and  the  deference  which 
the  politician  paid  to  the  historian  was  very 
inii)ressive. 

The  one  characteristic  which  dominated  all 
others  was  the  sense  Mr.  Gladstone  gave  of  enor- 
mous vitality  and  equable  strength.  His  rather 
clumsily  built,  sturdy  frame,  his  massive  features, 


58  Along  the  Road 

his  large  eyes,  with  that  tremendous  glance  full 
of  fire  and  command,  produced  a  sense  of  awe, 
almost  of  terror.  His  voice  was  unlike  anything 
I  ever  heard,  like  the  voice  of  many  waters.  It 
seemed  to  have  an  indefinite  reserve  of  strength 
and  thunder  in  it,  and  in  talk  it  was  like  the 
ripple  of  a  great  river.  One  felt  that  if  he  raised 
it  to  its  full  extent,  it  might  carry  everything 
away.  I  remember  hearing  him  in  church  say 
the  responses  to  the  Commandments  with  a 
variety  of  intonation,  and  an  intensity  of  earnest- 
ness that  made  it  unconsciously  impressive  as  a 
rhetorical  display.  And  then,  combined  with  all 
this,  was  the  noblest  and  sweetest  courtesy  that 
can  be  imagined.  He  gave  his  whole  attention, 
and  his  profoundest  respect,  to  any  one  with 
whom  he  found  himself.  The  result  was  a  kind 
of  stupefying  magnetism.  That  a  man  of  such 
note,  such  august  force,  should  condescend  to  be 
so  much  interested  and  pleased  in  the  humblest 
auditor  seemed  incredible,  and  yet  patently  true. 
I  recollect  how  once  at  a  large  dinner-party  at 
Lambeth,  when  the  guests  were  going  away,  Mr. 
Gladstone,  who  I  did  not  suppose  knew  me  by 
sight,  crossed  the  room  to  shake  hands  with  me, 
and  to  say  in  a  kind  of  leonine  whisper,  "  Floreat 
Etona!'' 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  his  most  trivial 
remarks  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  mature  re- 
flection, and  to  carry  with  them  a  sort  of  pas- 
sionate conviction.    I  remember  a  trifling  instance 


Mr.  Gladstone  59 

of  tills.  We  were  sitting  at  tea  on  the  Sunday 
afternoon  at  Hawarden  in  the  oi)en  air.  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  reading  at  intervals  with  profound 
attention  in  a  little  book,  bound  in  blue  cloth, 
which  I  can  only  describe  as  having  been  in  ap- 
pearance of  the  Sunday-school  iype.  Occasion- 
ally he  closed  the  book,  and  joined  in  the 
talk.  Something  was  said  about  the  right  use  of 
abbreviations  in  printed  books,  when  Mr.  Glad- 
stone intervened,  and  said  with  passionate  em- 
phasis that  by  far  the  most  important  contribution 
to  the  practical  welfare  of  the  world  he  had  ever 
made  was  the  invention  of  two  financial  symbols 
to  express  respectively  a  thousand  and  a  million. 
As  far  as  I  can  recollect,  the  symbol  for  a  thou- 
sand was  the  letter  M,  for  a  million  the  letter  M 
surrounded  by  a  circle.  After  a  pause  he  added 
in  a  melancholy  tone,  "  But  it  was  not  taken  up, 
and  the  world  has  never  profited  by  a  discovery 
that  might  have  infinitely  enriched  it."  We  sat 
aghast  at  the  folly  and  indifference  of  the  human 
race. 

Again,  there  is  a  story  of  how,  at  Hawarden, 
the  conversation  once  turned  on  walnuts;  and 
^Ir.  Gladstone,  in  a  pause,  said  in  thrilling  tones: 
"  I  have  not  eaten  a  walnut  since  I  was  a  boy 
of  sixteen," — and  then  added  in  a  cadence  of 
melancholy  dignity,  "  nor,  indeed,  a  nut  of  any 
kind."  The  auditor  who  told  me  the  story  said 
that  the  remark  was  received  like  an  oracle,  and 
that  he  had  for  the  moment  the  impression  that 


6o  Along  the  Road 

he  had  been  the  recipient  of  a  singular  and 
momentous  confidence — such  was  the  magnetic 
force  of  the  speaker.  The  effect,  I  used  to  think, 
was  augmented  by  the  forcible  burr  with  which 
the  letter  R  was  pronounced,  which  gave  a  curious 
richness  to  the  whole  intonation. 

But  the  most  memorable  instance  of  the  same 
quality  was  afforded  by  a  lecture  I  once  heard 
him  give  at  Eton  on  "  Artemis."  The  lecture  was 
kept  private,  and  reporters  were  excluded.  I  was 
asked  to  furnish  a  summary  for  The  Standard, 
and  sat  close  to  the  lecturer.  He  spoke  for  over 
an  hour,  with  flashing  eyes,  magnificent  gestures, 
and  splendid  emphasis.  At  the  time  it  seemed  to 
me  one  of  the  most  absorbing  and  enrapturing 
discourses  I  had  ever  heard.  He  described  in  the 
course  of  it  the  Homeric  adventure  of  a  woman 
— I  forget  the  reference — who,  Mr.  Gladstone  said, 
"  had  grossly  misconducted  herself,  in  more  than 
one  particular."  We  sat  thrilled  with  horror  at 
the  thought  of  her  depravity — and  when  he  pro- 
ceeded to  state  that  the  irate  goddess  "  beat  and 
belaboured  her,"  we  drew  a  breath  of  satisfaction, 
and  felt  that  the  crime  and  punishment  were 
duly  proportioned.  Again,  when  he  told  us  that 
Artemis  had  special  privileges  in  regard  to  cheese 
and  butter,  we  were  profoundly  affected.  At  the 
end  of  the  lecture,  in  reply  to  a  vote  of  thanks, 
Mr.  Gladstone  made  a  moving  speech,  comparing 
himself,  as  a  visitor  to  his  old  school,  with 
Antaeus  drawing  vigour  from  contact  with  his 


Mr.  Gladstone  6i 

native  soil;  and  thus  ended  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable displays  of  fascination  exerted  over  a 
8i>ell bound  audience  I  have  ever  heard.  But  when 
I  came  to  draw  up  my  report,  I  could  not  think 
where  the  whole  thing  had  vanished  to.  The  force 
and  fragrance  of  the  discourse  had  evaporated. 
The  conclusions  seemed  unbalanced,  the  illustra- 
tions almost  trivial.  Not  only  could  I  not  make 
my  account  impressive,  I  could  not  even  make  it 
interesting. 

And  this,  I  think,  holds  good  of  the  quality 
of  Mr.  Gladstone's  intellectual  force;  it  was  im- 
mensely strong,  lucid,  and  copious;  but  it  lacked 
charm  and  humanity.  His  prose  writings  are 
uninteresting;  his  Homeric  studies  are  unreliable, 
and  give  one  a  sense  of  logical  conviction  rather 
than  of  imaginative  perception;  when  one  is  re- 
constructing the  life  of  a  period,  it  cannot  be 
done  by  a  theory,  however  ingeniously  poised  on 
existing  details.  A  case  can  never  be  constructed 
out  of  surviving  details — the  faculty  of  historical 
imagination  must  complete  the  vision.  And  this 
was  what  Mr.  Gladstone  could  not  do.  He  could 
not  travel  outside  the  facts,  and  therefore  de- 
pended too  much  upon  them.  Facts  must  not  be 
ignored,  but  they  must  not  be  accepted  as  com- 
plete. I  even  respectfully  doubt  whether  his 
speeches  will  continue  to  be  read  for  their  literary 
qualities.  They  were  astonishing  manifestations 
of  logical  lucidity  and  verbal  copiousness.  He 
never  hesitated  for  a  word,  and  he  wound  up  the 


62  Along  the  Road 

most  intricate  sentences,  containing  parenthesis 
within  parenthesis,  with  unfailing  certainty.  But 
they  are  rhetorical  displays  of  mental  force  rather 
than  oratorical  expressions  of  ideas  and  emotions ; 
and  they  depended  for  their  cogency  upon  the 
personal  background,  the  energy  and  grandeur  of 
the  man.  Again,  Mr.  Gladstone  was  too  vehe- 
mently and  absorbingly  in  earnest  for  literary 
achievement.  He  had  little  lightness  of  touch. 
Tt  has  been  debated  whether  he  had  a  sense  of 
humour.  The  case  may  be  argued  in  the  affirma- 
tive, but  it  can  hardly  be  sustained.  He  told 
stories  humorous  in  intention,  and  his  emotions 
sometimes  flowered  in  an  epigram.  But  his  tem- 
perament, his  sense  of  momentous  issues,  his 
moral  force,  were  inconsistent  with  humour  in 
its  larger  sense.  It  would  have  detracted  rather 
than  added  to  his  power.  If  he  had  possessed 
humour,  he  could  not  ever  have  attained  to  the 
art  of  noble  and  genuine  self-persuasion,  which 
he  undoubtedly  practised.  He  has  been  ac- 
cused of  inconsistency;  but  he  had  what  is 
the  truest  consistency  of  all,  the  power  of  be- 
ing able  to  reconstruct  his  opinions  with  entire 
sincerity. 

Whatever  line  of  life  Mr.  Gladstone  had  chosen, 
he  would  have  been  supreme.  That  magnetic 
force,  that  intellectual  vigour,  sustained  by 
purity  of  heart  and  motive,  and  controlled  by 
courtesy,  made  him  irresistible.  He  might  have 
made  an  immense  fortune  as   a   merchant;   he 


Mr.  Gladstone  63 

might  have  been  Lord  Chancellor;  he  might  have 
been  Pope.  He  could  not  have  been  obscure 
and  unknown;  for  he  had  a  splendid  and  un- 
embarrassed simplicity,  a  resistless  force  and 
energy,  that  streamed  from  him  as  light  from 
the  sun. 

Yet,  as  one  contemplates  his  triumphs,  one 
finds  oneself  recurring  in  memory  to  the  beautiful 
background  of  domestic  quiet  and  stately  dignity 
in  which  he  was  as  much  or  more  at  home  than 
in  the  public  gaze.  I  can  see  him  now  in  an  old 
wide-awake  and  cloak  —trudging  off  in  the  drizzle 
of  an  October  morning  to  early  service.  I  re- 
member how,  at  Hawarden  in  1896,  on  one  of  the 
sad  evenings  after  my  father's  death,  I  dined 
alone  with  him  and  one  other  guest,  and  with 
what  beautiful  consideration  he  talked  quietly  on 
about  things  in  which  he  thought  we  should  be 
interested — things  that  needed  neither  comment 
nor  response,  and  all  so  naturally  and  easily,  that 
one  hardly  realised  the  tender  thoughtfulness  of 
it  all. 

And,  last  of  all,  I  remember  how  I  came  one 
evening  at  a  later  date  to  dine  at  Hawarden,  and 
was  shown  into  a  little  half-lit  ante-room  next 
the  dining-room.  It  was  just  at  the  beginning 
of  his  last  illness,  and  he  was  suffering  from  dis- 
comfort and  weakness.  There  on  a  sofa  he  sat, 
side  by  side  with  Mrs.  Gladstone;  they  were  sit- 
ting in  silence,  hand  in  hand,  like  two  children, 
the  old  warrior  and  his  devoted  wife.     It  seemed 


64  Along  the  Road 

almost  too  sacred  a  thing  to  have  seen;  but  it 
is  not  too  sacred  to  record,  for  it  seemed  the 
one  last  perfect  transfiguring  touch  of  love  and 
home. 


I 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  published  records  of  Robert  Browning,  for 
all  their  care  and  accuracy,  fail  to  cast  a  light 
upon  what  is,  after  all,  the  central  mystery  of 
Browning's  life — the  fact  that,  somehow  or  other, 
as  a  figure  and  as  a  personality,  he  seems  un- 
interesting. There  was  little,  to  the  ordinary 
eve,  that  was  salient  or  inspiring  about  his  talk 
or  his  views  of  life.  He  had  the  power  of  merging 
himself,  it  would  seem,  in  commonplace  things  in 
a  commonplace  way.  He  exhibited,  of  course,  a 
thoroughly  admirable  and  manly  tone,  optimistic, 
sociable,  simple,  straightforward.  He  never  in- 
duljjed  his  griefs,  he  had  no  petty  vanity  or  spite, 
he  was  entirely  wholesome-minded,  sane,  and 
reasonable.  His  talk,  one  would  at  least  have 
thought,  or  his  private  letters,  would  have  been 
picturesque,  fanciful,  humorous,  and  perceptive; 
and  possibly  in  intimate  tete-dtefe  talk,  which  can 
hardly  be  photographed  or  recorded,  this  was  so. 
But  I  confess  to  finding  even  his  letters  unin- 
spiring. They  are  long-winded,  elaborate,  un- 
graceful, not  even  spontaneous. 

1   remember  very  well,   as  an   undergraduate, 
5  65 


66  Along  the  Road 

going  to  meet  him  at  breakfast.  He  was  staying 
with  Sir  Sidney  Colvin,  at  Trinity,  in  the  early 
eighties.  I  was  a  devout  reader  and  a  whole- 
hearted worshipper  of  the  poet;  indeed,  I  was 
secretary  of  the  then  newly-founded  Cambridge 
Browning  Society;  and  with  what  tremulous  awe 
and  expectation  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
climbed  the  turret  stair  which  led  to  Sir  Sidney's 
rooms,  can  be  better  imagined  than  told.  The 
party  consisted,  I  think,  of  undergraduates  only, 
eight  or  ten  in  number.  There  came  into  the 
room  a  short,  sturdy  man,  with  silky  and  wavy 
white  hair,  a  short  beard  and  moustache,  his 
cheeks  shaven,  of  a  fresh  and  sanguine  com- 
plexion. We  were  presented  to  him  one  by  one. 
He  shook  hands  with  quiet  aplomb  and  self- 
possession,  said  a  few  words  to  me  about  my 
father,  whose  guest  he  had  been  more  than  once; 
and  we  sat  down  to  breakfast.  Our  host,  I  re- 
member, skilfully  turned  the  talk  on  to  matters 
of  ordinary  literary  interest.  But  the  great  man 
rose  to  no  conversational  fly.  He  was  perfectly 
good-humoured,  simple,  and  natural.  He  had  no 
pontifical  airs,  he  did  not  seem  to  feel  bound  to 
say  witty  or  suggestive  things,  but  neither  was 
he  in  the  least  shy  or  embarrassed.  He  just 
talked  away,  readily  and  amusingly,  as  any  well- 
informed,  sensible  man  might  talk.  But  we  had, 
of  course,  expected  that  he  would  pontificate! 
Tie  had  a  slightly  foreign  air,  I  remember  think- 
ing, as  if  he  were  a  diplomat,  used  to  cosmopolitan 


Robert  Browning  67 

sdciety.  But  his  simplicity,  beautiful  as  it  was, 
was  not  impressive,  because  there  was  nothing 
aj>pealing  or  impulsive  about  it.  It  did  not  seem 
j»s  if  he  were  sparing  himself,  or  holding  forces 
in  reserve,  but  as  if  he  were  a  good-natured, 
almost  bourgeois  man,  intelligent  and  good- 
humoured,  and  with  no  sense  that  he  might  be 
an  object  of  interest  to  any  one.  There  is  a 
conversation  recorded  in  the  Life,  when  he  was 
being  received  with  intense  enthusiasm  by  the 
authorities  and  students  of  some  Northern  Uni- 
versity. Some  one  asked  him  what  he  felt  about 
the  applause  and  veneration  he  was  receiving,  and 
he  said  something  to  the  effect  that  he  had  been 
waiting  for  it  all  his  life.  That  does  not  seem 
in  the  least  in  character  with  his  ordinary  atti- 
tude. He  did  not  seem  to  concern  himself  in 
earlier  days  with  his  own  fame,  to  be  either  dis- 
appointed if  it  was  withheld,  or  elated  if  it  w^as 
showered  upon  him.  He  did,  indeed,  display 
some  irritation  with  his  critics  when,  in  the 
period  following  the  publication  of  The  Ring 
and  the  Book,  he  suffered  some  detraction  at 
their  hands.  But  as  a  rule  he  seems  to  have 
taken  criticism,  favourable  or  unfavourable,  with 
equanimity,  good-nature,  and  indifference. 

Of  course,  one  is  thankful  in  a  w^ay  for  this 
simplicity,  in  contrast  to  the  self-conscious  vanity 
from  which  even  great  poets  like  Wordsworth 
and  Tennyson  were  not  exempt.  But  if  one  com- 
pares Tennyson  as  a  figure  with  Browning,  there 


68  Along  the  Road 

is  no  doubt  that  Tennyson  had  a  splendour  and 
a  solemnity  of  mien  and  utterance  which  pro- 
duced upon  his  friends  and  contemporaries  a 
sense  of  awful  reverence  and  deference,  which 
made  him  one  of  the  stateliest  and  most  impressive 
figures  of  his  time. 

And  yet  the  wonder  is  that  when  Browning 
took  pen  in  hand  to  write  poetry,  the  whole 
situation  was  utterly  transfigured.  In  spite  of 
certain  whimsical  tricks  and  bewildering  man- 
nerisms, there  came  from  that  amazing  brain  and 
heart,  not  only  a  torrent  of  subtle  and  suggestive 
thought,  but  an  acute  and  delicate  delineation  of 
the  innermost  mind  of  man,  in  words  so  beauti- 
ful, so  concentrated,  so  masterly,  that  one  can 
hardly  conceive  the  process  by  which  the  thing 
was  perceived,  felt,  arranged,  selected,  and  finally 
presented.  The  amazing  richness  of  sympathy, 
the  marvellous  intuition,  the  matchless  range  of 
it  all,  is  a  thing  which  is  stupendous  to  con- 
template. For  not  only  could  he  touch  the  stops 
of  the  sweetest,  most  personal,  most  delicate  emo- 
tions, not  only  could  he  interpret  Nature — a 
flower,  a  sunset,  a  star — with  the  most  caress- 
ing fineness,  but  he  could  raise  to  his  lips  a 
great  trumpet  of  noble  emotion,  and  blow  huge, 
melodious  blasts  upon  it  which  made  glad  the 
heart  of  man.  One  can  be  not  only  enraptured 
by  the  sweetness  of  his  touch,  but  carried  off 
one's  feet  in  a  sort  of  intoxication  of  hope  and 
joy. 


Robert  Browning  69 

"  What 's  life  to  me? 
Where'er  I  look  is  fire;  where'er  I  listen 
Music;  and  where  I  tend,  bliss  evermore." 


With  lines  like  that  ringing  in  one's  ears,  one 
is  bewildered  as  by  the  sudden  telling  of  joyful 
news.  It  transfigures  life  to  find  a  man  who  can 
look  into  it  so  deeply  and  so  firmly,  bringing 
back  such  treasure  out  of  the  rush  and  confusion 
of  it  all,  and  flinging  it  down  so  royally  at  the 
feet  of  those  who  toil  on  their  way. 

And  3'et  the  sort  of  kindly  and  bluff  simplicity 
which  Browning  exhibited  in  daily  life  is  just  the 
sort  of  quality  about  w^hich  there  seems  nothing 
adventurous  or  quixotic.  One  would  have  said 
that  he  was  a  man  who  enjoyed  life  in  its  simplest 
forms — walking,  talking,  dining-out,  listening  to 
music — so  directly  that  he  w^ould  not  have  time 
or  taste  for  any  raptures,  and  so  equably  that  he 
would  not  feel  the  need  of  any  far-off  hope  or 
promise  to  sustain  him  or  console  him.  One  does 
not  see  where  it  all  came  from,  or  where  he  got 
all  that  complexity  and  intricacy  of  experience 
from.  It  seemed  as  though  he  could  not  take 
any  but  the  obvious  and  rational  view  of*  life,  as 
though  he  valued  the  ordinary  conventions  and 
customs  of  society  highly;  and  yet  whenever  it 
came  to  verse,  the  thought  broke  out  into  music, 
and  the  heart  behind  seemed  all  alive  with  pas- 
sion and  beauty  and  irrational  nobleness.  Very 
possibly,  if  one  had  known  him  better,  one  might 


70  Along  the  Road 

have  caught  the  accent  of  the  great  secrets  that 
were  beckoning  and  whispering  in  his  mind;  but 
the  more  that  is  revealed  about  his  ordinary 
demeanour  and  the  current  of  his  days,  the  less 
there  seems  to  reveal  or  to  linger  over.  One  sees 
his  intense  faculty  of  momentary  enjoyment;  but 
surely  there  can  be  no  man  of  comparable  great- 
ness, whose  special  gift,  too,  was  an  almost 
shattering  force  of  expression  combined  with  an 
exquisite  delicacy  of  touch,  of  whom  so  few  dicta 
are  preserved?  He  seems  to  have  been  able  to 
keep  the  two  lives  serenely  and  securely  apart, 
and  to  talk  and  gossip  good-humouredly  and 
easily  in  the  outer  chambers,  with  this  furnace 
of  emotion  and  excitement  roaring  and  raging 
within.  It  is  not  as  if  he  had  lived  in  remote 
dreams  and  incommunicable  romance,  far  off  in 
some  untroubled  and  wistful  region.  His  con- 
cern was  with  the  very  sight  and  sound  and  scent 
of  life,  a  fact  shown  ever  so  clearly  by  the  mar- 
vellous catalogues  of  miscellaneous  and  nonde- 
script objects  which  he  crowds  together  on  his 
pages.  And  one  cannot  make  a  greater  mistake 
than  by  treating  Browning,  as  he  is  often  treated, 
as  merely  the  poet  of  a  devout  kind  of  optimism. 
He  is  too  often  adopted  as  the  prophet  of  vaguely 
intellectual  and  virtuous  people,  who,  because 
they  cannot  see  very  far  into  life  or  unravel  its 
confusions,  think  it  as  well  to  shout  a  sort  of 
comprehensive  Hallelujah  over  the  good  time 
coming.     Browning's    optimism    did,    no    doubt, 


Robert  Browning  71 

emerge  triumphant  over  circumstance.  He  said 
once  to  a  man  who  complained  that  he  found  life 
complicated  and  disheartening,  that  it  had  not 
been  so  to  him;  and,  indeed,  his  zest  for  life  and 
living  was  so  great  that  he  was  not  struck  dumb 
and  melancholy  by  any  catastrophe,  because  there 
was  still  so  much  left  that  was  worth  doing  and 
saying.  But  there  is  a  great  deal  in  Browning 
beside  his  optimism.  He  does  not  make  a  simple 
melody  out  of  life,  he  scores  and  orchestrates  it; 
and  his  own  brave  solution  is  made  not  exactly 
out  of  life,  but  in  spite  of  it. 

But  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  bring  the  two 
ends  of  the  puzzle  together.  It  may  not  be  so 
with  other  readers  of  Browning,  but  it  does  seem 
to  me  that  very  little  of  that  supreme  and  over- 
powering radiance,  which  gleams  and  flashes  so 
prodigally  and  gloriously  in  his  poetry,  shone 
through  into  his  life.  He  does  not  seem  like  a 
man  who  guarded  a  secret  source  of  inspiration, 
but  a  man  of  small  accomplishments,  ordinary 
interests,  and  average  views;  and  then  one  opens 
a  volume  of  the  lyrics,  and  the  lightning  flashes 
and  the  thunder  rolls  and  answers,  while  all  the 
while  at  any  moment  a  glimpse  of  loveliness,  a 
]»rosj)ect  of  heavenly  beauty,  opens  upon  the  view. 
And  then  in  the  front  of  that  comes  the  quiet, 
burly  figure  that  I  remember,  easy  and  unaffected, 
jingling  the  money  in  his  pocket,  not  desirous 
of  any  confidences  of  intimate  relations,  just  a 
comfortable  citizen  of  the  world. 


NEWMAN 

I  HAVE  been  reading  Mr.  Ward^s  Life  of  Newman^ 
a  book  which,  by  its  fine  candour  and  high 
literary  accomplishment,  does  credit  both  to  the 
skill  and  the  disinterestedness  of  the  biographer. 
But  it  is  somehow  a  deeply  painful,  almost  I 
had  said,  a  heartrending  book !  One  feels  that  it 
is  like  reading  the  life  of  an  angel  that  has  lost 
his  way.  One  ends  with  an  immense  admiration 
for  Newman's  simplicity,  sweetness,  and  stain- 
lessness  of  character;  but  there  is  something 
strangely  ineffective,  wistful,  and  melancholy 
about  his  life.  One  feels  that  he  was  generally 
being  bullied  by  some  one,  or  at  all  events  feel- 
ing that  he  was  being  bullied,  disapproved  of, 
hampered,  set  aside,  misunderstood.  He  was  like 
a  child  in  the  masterful  hands  of  ambitious 
diplomatists  and  ecclesiastical  lobbyists,  like 
Manning  and  Talbot,  both  of  them  effective, 
pushing,  scheming  men,  essentially  second-rate. 
The  whole  impression  given  of  the  Papal  Court 
is  disagreeable;  it  seems  to  have  been  manned 
by  unintelligent  time-servers,  ignorant  oppor- 
tunists, men  who  did  not  understand  the  pro- 

72 


Newman  73 

blems  of  the  time,  men  singularly  lacking  in 
apostolic  fervour,  and  even,  one  would  say,  in 
disinterested  Christian  qualities,  men  without  the 
wisdom  of  the  serpent  but  not  without  the  ser- 
]>ent^s  venom.  These  fierce  ultramontanes  would 
never  allow  Newman  to  take  a  hand  in  their 
game,  while  they  traded  to  the  full  on  his  great 
reputation. 

I  remember  once  when  I  was  staying  at 
Hawarden,  I  heard  Mr.  Gladstone,  talking  about 
Manning,  say  that  it  must  be  always  remembered 
that  Manning  was  before  all  things  a  diplomatist; 
he  added  with  great  emphasis,  "  when  it  was  a 
question  of  policy,  everything  else"  had  to  give 
wa}^ — Plato,  or  the  almanac,  or  truth  itself!" — 
and  as  one  reads  the  Life  of  Newman,  one  feels 
that  this  is  not  an  unjust  judgment. 

But  one  ends  by  feeling  a  still  greater  respect 
for  Newman  from  the  very  fact  that  he  never  did 
get  involved  in  any  of  the  intrigues  that  were  spun 
about  him;  he  was  used,  when  he  was  wanted; 
but  he  was  never  wholly  trusted,  and  never  given 
an  independent  sphere  of  action.  It  is  clear  that 
he  was  an  unpractical  man ;  he  never  brought  off 
any  of  his  plans,  such  as  the  Roman  Catholic 
University  in  Ireland,  or  the  College  which  he 
devised  for  Oxford.  He  had  a  muddled  habit  of 
doing  business ;  he  never  seems  to  have  been  quite 
certain  what  he  wanted,  or  to  have  made  sure 
of  his  ground.  He  seems  to  have  been  almost 
deliberately  allowed  to  make  schemes  for  his  own 


74  Along  the  Road 

amusement,  yet  never  permitted  to  carry  them 
out.  One  understands  his  depression,  his  help- 
lessness, his  consciousness  of  his  ^'  do-nothing 
life,"  as  he  called  it  in  a  moment  of  bitterness. 

But  what  does  come  out  very  clearly,  beside 
his  weakness  in  practical  things,  is  the  strength 
and  tenderness  of  his  temperament.  I  never 
grasped  clearly  till  I  read  this  book  what  New- 
man really  was;  but  I  now  seem  to  understand 
him.  He  was  a  poet,  I  believe,  and  an  artist 
before  everything.  He  had  a  high  conception  of 
moral  beauty,  but  his  adherence  to  Koman 
Catholicism  was  not  primarily,  I  believe,  an 
ecclesiastical  matter.  The  Church  of  Rome  ap- 
pealed to  him  emotionally  and  artistically,  with 
its  dim  and  venerable  traditions,  its  august  his- 
tory, its  splendid  associations,  its  ceremonial 
pomp,  its  roll  of  saints.  The  Church  of  England, 
with  the  vigorous  liberalism  of  the  Reformation 
dying  down  into  Erastian  and  materialistic  in- 
dolence, could  not  give  him  what  he  wanted.  He 
desired  something  more  ancient,  more  tender, 
more  beautiful,  more  inspiring.  I  do  not  think 
that  his  intellectual  power  was  very  great.  Car- 
lyle  said,  coarsely  and  stupidly,  that  Newman 
had  the  brains  of  a  rabbit;  but  reading  the  Life 
has  made  me  see  what  Carlyle  meant.  Newman 
was  not  a  clear  or  a  deep  thinker;  he  did  not 
understand  philosophy,  and  he  dreaded  all  mental 
speculation.  He  wanted  rest,  comfort,  peace, 
beautiful  dreams,  old  memories,  far-reaching  emo- 


Newman  75 

tions.     He  had  a  logical  mind,  but  he  was  at  the 
,     mere}'  of   superficial   logic;    his   heart   was  con- 
1  vinced  and  his  mind  followed  suit. 
I       What  he  did  possess  was  a  matchless  and  in- 
'    comparable  power  of  expression.    Everj^thing  that 
he  wrote  was  soaked  in  personality.     He  had  the 
I)()wer,    which    he    and    Ruskin    alone    possessed 
among  the  writers  of  the  century,  of  thinking 
I     aloud  in  the  most  exquisite  form.     His  writing 
;     is  like  a  limpid  stream,  and  he  could  give  i)erfect 
form  as  he  wrote  to  the  tender,  humorous,  ardent, 
sweet  qualities  of  his  mind  and  nature.     Whether 
it  is  a  sermon,  or  a  letter,  or  a  memorandum,  or 
a  record,  it  is  always  the  same — a  sort  of  in- 
timate and  lucid   conversation,   flowing  equably 
and  purely  out  of  heart  and  mind  alike.    That  was 
his  supreme  gift,  his  artistry;  the  delicacy,  the  in- 
genuity, the  studied  unaffectedness,  the  perfume 
of  all  that  he  wrote.     It  is  that  which  makes  the 
Apologia  so  memorable  a  book,  the  power  of  wist- 
ful self-analysis,  the  sense  that  one  is  face  to 
face   with   the   very   man  himself  in   a   kind   of 
intimate  tcte-a-lcfe.     Newman  could  say  exactly 
what  he  meant  and  what  he  thought,  and  as  he 
thought  it.     His  mind  moved  exactly  as  fast  as 
his  pen ;  and  because  the  Apologia  was  written 
in  tears,  as  he  confessed,  so  one  can  hear  the 
accent  of  sorrow  in  the  tone  of  the  writer. 

But  there  are  many  other  things  in  the  book 
which  confirm  this  view  of  Newman.  He  said 
that  the  only  thing  he  could  write  without  any 


76  Along  the  Road 

trouble  was  poetry;  and  we  know,  too,  from  the 
Life,  how  he  loved  music,  and  how  he  suppressed 
his  taste  for  it  for  many  years,  out  of  some  sort 
of  ascetic  self-denial.  But  he  added  that  music 
was  the  only  thing  that  calmed  and  inspired  him 
without  fail,  and  the  only  thing  which  helped 
him  to  write.  We  see,  too,  how  his  friends  gave 
him  a  violin  when  he  was  over  sixty,  and  how 
he  delighted  in  playing  it,  hour  by  hour,  in  the 
Oratorian  country  house  at  Kednal,  where  there 
was  no  one  to  disturb. 

And  then,  too,  there  is  the  romantic  affection 
which  he  bore  to  his  friends,  and  to  the  well- 
loved  scenes  of  his  life.  He  describes  how  when 
he  left  Littlemore  he  kissed  his  bed  and  the 
mantelpiece  of  his  room.  And  one  becomes  aware 
of  his  constant  tearfulness,  his  agitated  and  emo- 
tional visits  to  places  which  he  had  loved.  What 
could  be  more  moving  than  the  account  quoted 
of  Newman's  only  visit  to  Littlemore  twenty 
years  after  he  had  left  it?  "I  was  passing  by 
the  church  at  Littlemore,"  wrote  the  eye-witness 
of  the  scene,  "  when  I  observed  a  man,  very  poorly 
dressed,  leaning  over  the  lych-gate,  crying.  He 
was  to  all  appearance  in  great  trouble.  He  was 
dressed  in  an  old  grey  coat  with  the  collar  turned 
up,  and  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  face  as  if 
he  wished  to  hide  his  features."  That  was  New- 
man, returning  to  see  his  old  home!  All  this  is 
strangely  affecting,  and  testifies  to  the  almost 
unbalanced  sensitiveness  and  emotion  of  the  man. 


Newman  77 

And  then  further  one  sees,  running  all  through 
his  life,  the  intense  desire  to  be  understood,  loved, 
appreciated,  praised.  He  was  childlike  in  his 
horror  of  suspicion,  of  disapproval,  of  harshness. 
The  success  of  the  Apologia  made  all  the  dif- 
ference to  his  happiness,  and  his  satisfaction  with 
the  fame  that  it  gave  him  is  naively  enough  ex- 
pressed. The  reception  of  his  Poems  gave  him 
deep  satisfaction.  The  Cardinalate,  one  feels, 
was  almost  too  deeply  valued  by  him.  It 
was  not  enough  that  he  should  be  secretly  aware 
of  the  purity  of  his  motives,  the  devotion  of  his 
life:  it  was  a  necessity  to  him  that  others  should 
know  it,  admit  it,  appreciate  it.  He  wanted 
honour,  affection,  and  recognition.  He  could  not 
endure  in  silence;  he  had  the  natural  egotism  of 
the  artist;  he  wanted  to  tell  his  own  story,  to 
explain  his  own  thoughts,  to  express  his  own 
convictions.  In  one  sense  he  shrank  from  doing 
this,  but  what  he  really  dreaded  was  criticism 
and  discredit.  No  one  can  read  the  Apologia 
without  feeling  that  the  writer  tells  his  tale  with 
delight  and  interest;  and  it  is  the  wistful  appeal 
for  approval  and  esteem  and  sympathy  which 
makes  the  book  what  it  is. 

I  do  not  say  that  Newman  was  not  a  man  of 
intense  spiritual  ardour:  he  was  a  moralist  to 
the  inmost  fibre  of  his  being;  but  so  were  Ruskin, 
Carlyle,  and  Tennyson ;  and  it  is  with  these  that 
Newman  is  to  be  reckoned,  and  not  with  philo- 
sophers, prelates,  and  ecclesiastical  politicians. 


78  Along  the  Road 

Of  course,  his  temperament  condemned  him  to 
great  suffering;  and  the  impression  left  by  the 
Life  is  mainly  that  of  suffering,  in  spite  of  his 
occasional  and  tardy  triumphs.  The  time  be- 
tween his  joining  the  Church  of  Rome  and  the 
publication  of  the  Apologia  gives  one  the  impres- 
sion that  he  was  then  a  thoroughly  disheartened 
and  dreary  man,  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into 
indolent  despondency,  as  his  attempts  to  do  some 
work  for  the  Church  failed  one  by  one.  The  sun- 
shine comes  back  at  the  end,  but  the  pathos  of 
the  intervening  years  is  great;  and  the  portraits 
show  this  very  clearly,  as  the  rather  prim  and 
hard  features  of  the  Anglican  period  lapse  into 
a  sad,  helpless,  and  rueful  expression,  with  the 
lines  of  weariness,  hypochondria,  and  disappoint- 
ment graving  themselves  deeply  on  his  face.  It 
is  very  interesting  to  see  how  much  Newman 
thought,  in  his  sad  days,  about  his  health,  how 
afraid  he  was  of  paralysis,  how  much  he  lived 
under  a  premonition  of  death;  and  how  all  that 
uneasy  misery  cleared  off  when  he  found  himself 
famous  and  honoured. 

But  of  all  the  melancholy  scenes  of  the  book, 
the  saddest  is  the  visit  to  Keble  in  1865,  where 
Newman  met  Pusey.  He  had  much  desired  to 
see  Keble,  but  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  meet- 
ing Pusey.  He  w^ent,  however,  and  owing  to  some 
misunderstanding  Pusey  appeared  also.  It  was 
twenty  years  since  they  had  met.  When  New- 
man arrived  at  the  door,  Keble  was  standing  in 


Newman  79 

the  porch.  They  did  not  even  recognise  each 
otlier,  and  Newman  actually  produced  his  card  I 
Keble  was  very  much  agitated  at  the  fact  that 
Pusey  was  in  the  house,  and  said  he  must  go 
and  prepare  him  for  the  meeting.  When  New- 
man went  in,  he  found  Pusey  in  the  study,  shrink- 
ing back,  as  he  says  he  himself  would  have  done. 
He  was  startled,  pained,  and  grieved  by  Pusey's 
appearance,  and  was  distressed  by  the  way  that 
Pusey  stared  at  him,  and  by  the  "  condescending  " 
manner  in  which  he  spoke.  They  had  a  talk  and 
dined  together,  and  Newman  said  that  it  was  a 
heavy  pain  to  think  that  they  were  three  old 
friends,  meeting  after  twenty  years,  "  without  a 
common  cause,  or  free  outspoken  thought — kind 
indeed,  but  subdued  and  antagonistic  in  their 
language  to  each  other."  Keble  was  delightful, 
Newman  said,  though  he  was  deaf,  with  impaired 
speech,  and  slow  of  thought;  and  he  adds  that 
Keble  (lisi)layed  much  sympathy  and  interest 
towards  himself,  but  very  little  towards  Pusey. 

That  seems  to  me  a  simply  tragical  meeting, 
iind  they  never  met  again,  though  Keble  wrote 
afterwards  to  Newman,  saying,  "  When  shall  we 
three  meet  again?  .  .  .  when  the  hurly-burly 's 
done." 

It  is  indeed  a  melancholy  thought.  Here  were 
three  men,  the  closest  possible  friends,  who  had 
<  hampioned  a  great  cause  together,  and  restored 
vitality  to  the  Church  of  England.  Newman  said 
that  he  was  aware  that  as  far  as  regarded  their 


8o  Along  the  Road 

faith,  Keble  and  Pusey  agreed  with  him  exactly 
on  every  point  but  one — the  submission  to  the 
authority  of  Rome.  And  yet  for  all  the  old  days 
of  friendship,  and  for  all  their  unity  of  faith,  they 
were  suspicious,  hostile,  utterly  separated.  It  is 
liard  not  to  feel  that  there  is  something  tragically 
amiss  in  all  this.  If  the  old  friendship  had  just 
shone  through,  touched  with  sadness  at  the  in- 
evitable separation;  if  they  could  have  talked 
and  smiled  and  even  wept  together,  it  would 
surely  have  been  more  Christian,  more  human 
than  this  harsh  mistrust.  One  feels  the  Gospel  of 
brotherly  love  must  have  been  somehow  strangely 
misapprehended  if  it  could  not  for  once  bring  the 
three  old  comrades'  hearts  together.  Our  Lord 
indeed  foresaw  the  dividing  force  of  Christianity ; 
but  one  feels  that  when  He  spoke  of  a  man's  foes 
being  those  of  his  own  household.  He  was  surely 
speaking  of  the  conflict  between  the  Faith  and 
Paganism,  and  not  of  disunion  between  devout 
and  sincere  Christians ! 

And  it  is  this  finally  which  casts  a  shadow 
over  the  whole  book,  because  it  reveals  the  awful 
gulf  of  sectarianism,  the  emphasis  on  points  of 
difference,  the  dreadful  animosity  kindled  by 
faith  diversely  interpreted  and  held.  As  systems, 
doctrines.  Churches  develop,  it  seems  as  if  the 
only  effect  could  be  to  plunge  Christians  deeper 
and  deeper  into  mutual  hostility  and  further 
away  from  the  purpose  and  design  of  Christ.  It 
seems  as  though  the  Faith  had  evoked  and  en- 


Newman  8i 

listed  the  stubbornness  and  self-assurance  and 
the  evil  tempers  of  political  partisanship,  and  as 
though  the  simplicity  and  loving-kindness  of  the 
Gospel  message  were  gone  past  recovery.  And 
thus,  though  one  is  strangely  drawn  to  Newman 
himself,  because  one  discerns  in  him  an  affection 
which  did  somehow  outlast  and  overtop  all  con- 
troversy and  bewildered  disunion,  one  is  painfully 
struck  with  the  materialism,  the  secularity,  the 
self-seeking  of  ecclesiastical  politics,  and  one 
closes  the  book  with  a  sigh. 

6 


AKCHIPPUS 

I  SAT  in  my  stall  in  the  College  chapel  listening 
to  the  lesson,  read  by  a  boyish  reader  from  the 
gilded  eagle  lectern.  The  crimson  hangings  of 
the  sanctuary  filled  the  air  with  colour,  the  golden 
organ-pipes  gleamed  above;  the  light  came  richly 
in  through  the  stained  glass,  and  lost  itself  in 
the  gloom  of  the  dark,  carved  roof.  The  rows  of 
surpliced  figures  sat  still  and  silent,  listening  or 
not  listening,  dreaming  of  things  before  and  bo- 
hind,  old  adventures,  all  they  meant  to  do  and 
be,  the  thought  perhaps  taking  on  a  gentler  tinge 
from  the  ancient  beauty  of  the  place. 

Such  homely  advice,  too,  it  all  was! — advice 
to  husbands,  wives,  children,  masters,  servants, 
shrewd  enough  and  kindly;  not  losing  sight  of 
daily  life  and  its  interests,  and  yet  keeping  in 
view  something  noble  and  beautiful  behind  it  all, 
the  unseen  greatness  of  life,  so  easily  forgotten. 

My  eyes  strayed  further  down  the  page  of  the 
Bible  T  held  in  my  hand.  I  do  not  know  any- 
thing more  touching,  more  inspiring  than  the 
little  personal  messages  and  counsels  sent  to  in- 
dividual saints :  mere  names  most  of  them !    How 

82 


Archippus  83 

little  St.  Paul  himself  dreamed,  as  he  wrote  in 
prison,  in  discomfort  and  anxiety,  what  would 
become  of  his  letters!  After  advice  faithfully 
given,  his  mind  would  pass  to  the  remembered 
faces  of  his  friends,  simple  people  enough,  and 
he  would  fill  his  page  with  greetings  and  words 
of  love.  Those  names  of  men  and  women  bring 
the  whole  thing  down  on  to  such  a  tender  and 
human  plane,  speak  with  such  a  directness  of  love 
and  affection. 

And  they,  too,  who  received  the  messages,  if 
they  could  have  pictured  such  a  place  as  this 
chapel,  its  richness,  its  solemnity,  what  would 
they  have  felt  at  hearing  their  homely  names 
thus  read  aloud,  and  the  words  of  counsel  and 
love  addressed  to  them? — and  read,  too,  not  in 
one,  but  in  thousands  of  great  churches,  which 
to  see  would  have  been  to  them  almost  like  a 
vision  of  the  courts  of  heaven,  with  the  organ 
music  rolling  under  the  vaulted  roofs.  Fame? 
Yes,  a  kind  of  fame;  nothing  known  of  them, 
nothing  certain  about  them,  like  a  name  on  a 
headstone  in  a  place  of  graves,  with  a  date  and 
some  faint  record  of  virtues  and  graces — all  else 
forgotten. 

Archippus!  He  is  mentioned  twice  in  Scrip- 
ture; he  is  a  "fellow-soldier"  in  the  Epistle  to 
Philemon;  and  here  he  has  a  direct  enough  mes- 
sage. "  And  say  to  Archippus,  Take  heed  to  the 
ministry  which  thou  hast  received  in  the  Lord, 
that  thou  fulfil  it."    That  was  to  be  his  business. 


84  Along  the  Road 

Yet  we  know  nothing  of  him,  of  his  past  or  his 
future;  there  is  a  faint  old  story  of  his  martyr- 
dom, possibly  true  enough ;  but  what  the  ministry 
was  and  how  he  executed  it,  of  that  we  know 
nothing. 

I  sometimes  wish  that  our  splendid  version  of 
the  Bible  had  not  won  from  use  and  ceremony 
and  from  the  very  veneration  paid  it,  quite  so 
solemn  and  stately  a  sound.  As  an  epistle  is 
translated,  with  its  "  thou  "  and  "  ye,"  it  has  the 
air  of  a  princely  document,  such  as  a  great  bishop 
might  write  from  his  magnificence  to  other  stately 
persons.  When  St.  Paul  speaks  of  the  Epistle 
to  the  Colossians  being  read  to  the  Church  at 
Laodicea,  and  the  epistle  to  the  Laodiceans  being 
read  to  the  Church  at  Colossse,  one  thinks  of 
some  great  ceremonial,  with  a  parchment  loudly 
recited  in  a  great  building  thronged  with  wor- 
shippers. One  forgets  how  homely  it  all  was  in 
reality.  It  is  a  letter  really  to  be  read  at  a  meet- 
ing of  very  ordinary  folk  in  a  poor  room,  a  letter 
such  as  a  mission-teacher  might  write  to  a  few 
old  friends.  And  one  forgets,  too,  the  novelty  of 
it  all.  Now  that  Christianity  has  taken  a  place 
among  the  forces  of  the  world,  and  is  mixed  up 
with  so  much  that  is  powerful  and  conventional 
and  respectable,  one  forgets  how  new,  how  sus- 
picious, how  unconventional,  how  socialistic  shall 
we  say,  it  all  seemed — it  was  a  handful  of  work- 
ing people  comforting  themselves  with  a  message 
of  utterly  new  and  unexpected  things.     It  had 


Archippus  85 

none  of  the  weight  of  the  world  behind  it;  it 
broke  awuy  from  all  received  ideas  and  prejudices. 
These  people  who  got  this  letter,  with  its  advice 
and  words  of  love,  were  no  doubt  looked  upon 
by  neighbours  as  fanatical,  discontented,  fantastic 
persons,  who  could  not  take  life  for  granted  m 
the  old  comfortable  way,  but  must  throw  them- 
selves into  a  wild,  radical,  restless  fancy,  taught 
them  by  an  insignificant,  vehement,  fiery -tem- 
pered, wandering  preacher,  who  came  from  no 
one  knew  where,  and  was  now  justly  in  prison 
for  stirring  up  strife.  Colossae  was  a  decaying 
town,  its  trade  vanishing,  its  old  importance 
gone;  yet  how  its  easy-going,  sensible  citizens 
must  have  desi»ised  the  new  ideas  that  had  seized 
upon  a  few  fanciful  folk;  how  they  must  have 
shaken  their  heads  over  the  movement  and  mis- 
trusted it!  The  people  who  took  it  up  were 
doing,  they  felt,  an  unpopular  and  unpractical 
thing,  and  no  good  could  come  of  it!  That  is 
how  we  must  look  at  it  all.  Christianity  was 
not  then  a  beneficent,  well-endowed,  familiar 
power,  but  something  new,  disturbing,  danger- 
ous. I  daresay  the  Christians  at  Colossae  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  and  needed  all  the  affection  and 
advice  which  St.  Paul  could  give  them! 

It  is  not  only  a  comforting  letter — St.  Paul 
was  very  anxious  about  a  certain  kind  of  teach- 
ing, it  is  hard  to  say  exactly  what,  which  seemed 
to  be  mixing  itself  up  with  the  faith.  He  is 
severe  enough  about  that.     It  is  not  the  letter 


S6  Along  the  Road 

of  a  man  who  is  wholly  satisfied.  Something  is 
very  wrong;  and  neither  can  we  feel  that  all  the 
very  plain  advice  to  husbands  and  wives,  masters 
and  servants,  came  loosely  out  of  St.  Paul's  mind. 
He  must  have  heard  of  misdoings  and  misunder- 
standings. The  seed  was  not  growing  up  happily 
and  strongly;  there  were  weeds  in  abundance, 
and  they  must  be  rooted  up.  But  the  old  affec- 
tions come  out  at  the  end;  and  this  is  perhaps 
the  secret  of  the  intensity  of  St.  Paul's  writings ; 
the  large  heart  that  took  men  and  women  in  so 
readily,  and  never  forgot  them.  He  never  con- 
doned what  was  amiss;  he  wrote  in  anger,  grief, 
and  indignation;  but  at  the  end,  the  recollections 
of  well-known  faces  and  gestures  and  friendly 
words  crowd  in  upon  him,  and  the  last  words 
are  always  words  of  personal  love. 

It  is  very  wonderful  all  this — more  wonderful 
than  we  often  allow  ourselves  to  believe,  that 
these  old  messages  and  greetings  should  stand 
out  to-day  with  such  an  absolute  freshness,  and 
touch  so  many  hearts  even  now.  What  St.  Paul 
says  to  Archippus  he  says  to  many.  Archippus 
had  found  a  w^ork  for  which  he  was  suited.  He 
must  have  grown  a  little  tired  of  it,  perhaps, 
when  the  novelty  and  excitement  had  worn  off. 
St.  Paul  cannot  feel  perfectly  sure  of  him,  or  he 
would  not  have  sent  him  so  plain  a  message.  He 
had  gifts;  was  he  using  them? 

We  need  not  apply  the  words  too  technically 
to  an  office  or  a  priesthood;  the  word  used  for 


Archippus  87 

ministry  means  a  service.  It  was  probably  a 
very  informal  thing:  a  duty  of  speech,  of  care 
for  poorer  Christians,  of  keeping  a  congregation 
together.  He  had  some  sort  of  influence  with 
other  people  no  doubt,  a  kindly  manner,  an 
affectionate  heart,  some  power  of  expressing  what 
he  felt.  Probably  he  had  some  business  of  his 
own;  he  was  a  shopman,  perhaps,  a  worker  of 
some  kind;  vet  he  was  worthy  to  be  St.  Paul's 
fellow-soldier,  if  not  now,  at  all  events  later,  when 
the  little  anxious  message  had  done  its  work. 

And  so  the  figure  of  Archippus  gleams  out 
faintly  for  an  instant  on  the  background  of  the 
past;  a  man  who  had  a  work  to  do,  and  could 
do  it,  but  was  careless;  and  yet  on  whom  the 
reproof  had  its  effect.  He  is  a  type  of  thousands 
of  lives,  that  do  their  work  in  their  own  little 
circle,  with  no  great  reward,  no  escape  out  of 
obscurity;  and  yet  for  all  that  Archippus  has 
written  his  name  upon  the  world,  as  many  great 
generals  and  judges  and  statesmen  have  not 
written  it,  by  what  we  strangely  call  chance. 
Reckon  the  chances,  so  to  speak,  that  a  letter 
written  from  prison,  and  sent  by  faithful  hands 
over  land  and  sea,  to  a  knot  of  old  friends,  would 
have  perished  utterly  out  of  the  records  of  the 
world!  It  is  something  more  than  chance  which 
has  preserved  it,  and  brought  it  to  pass  that  it 
should  be  read,  as  I  heard  it  to-day,  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  a  land  like  our  own,  nearly 
twenty  centuries  after. 


88  Along  the  Road 

I  think  that  if  we  could  put  some  thoughts  like 
these  more  often  into  our  minds  when  we  hear 
the  Bible  read  in  church,  we  should  be  more  in- 
terested, more  amazed,  more  moved  by  the  extra- 
ordinary nature  of  it  all.  Yet  we  take  it  all 
dully  as  a  matter  of  course;  perhaps  we  try  to 
give  it  a  demure  attention,  and  the  name  of 
Archippus  and  the  work  he  had  to  do  just  falls 
like  a  ripple  on  minds  full  of  plans  and  schemes 
and  hopes  and  interests,  not  mingling  with  them, 
and  certainly  not  changing  them!  Yet  it  needs 
no  great  exercise  of  the  imagination  to  think  of 
these  things.  They  are  in  a  score  of  books;  we 
have  but  to  ask  ourselves  a  question  or  two,  and 
we  are  back  in  the  dark  past,  with  Christian 
light  stealing  into  a  dim  world  by  a  hundred 
channels,  confirming  the  hopes  of  thousands  of 
hearts,  bringing  them  just  the  one  thing  needed 
to  put  the  cares  of  the  world  in  their  place, 
whispering  a  secret  of  life  and  immortality.  The 
world  is  not  soon  changed;  life  and  the  cares  of 
life  press  heavily  on  most  of  us;  and  then  there 
comes  a  man  sent  from  God,  like  St.  Paul,  and 
shows  that  life  is  all  knit  together  by  invisible 
chains  from  the  friends  and  neighbours  whom  we 
know  so  well,  to  the  unseen  persons  who  are  fear- 
ing and  hoping  as  we  are  fearing  and  hoping; 
and  thus  it  passes  back  into  the  old  records,  and 
shows  us  the  long  procession  of  humanity  moving 
through  the  years,  straining  their  eyes  and  ears 
for  the  light  and  sound  of  the  message;  and  then 


Archippus  89 

the  thoughts  and  affections  that  bind  us  all  to- 
gether pass  still  further  and  deeper  into  the 
darkness,  to  find  their  home  in  the  heart  of 
God. 


KEATS 

I  BOUGHT  at  a  bookstall  a  few  days  ago,  before 
a  long  journey,  a  volume  of  Keats's  poems,  and 
read  it  through  from  end  to  end.  Was  there 
ever  such  an  astonishing  performance?  That  a 
man  who  died,  after  a  long  period  of  illness,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  should  produce  such  a  body 
of  work,  so  much  of  it  of  the  very  finest  and 
purest  quality,  is  surely  an  absolutely  unique 
phenomenon ! 

There  is  much  to  be  said  for  devouring  a  poet 
whole  like  this.  Of  course,  the  right  way  to  read 
poetry  as  a  rule  is  to  sip  it  leisurely,  to  savour 
it,  to  turn  it  over  and  over  in  the  mind,  to  learn 
it  by  heart.  Thus  one  gets  at  the  beauty  of  the 
word  and  the  phrase. 

But  if  one  is  very  familiar  with  a  poet,  it  is 
a  good  thing  occasionally  to  gallop  through  his 
works  at  a  sitting.  One  gets  a  wholly  different 
view  of  him.  It  is  like  flashing  through  a  scene 
in  a  motor  which  one  has  explored  only  on  foot. 
I  motored  the  other  day  through  some  country 
with  which  I  was  familiar  as  a  child,  where  T 
had  loitered  with  my  nurse  in  a  slow,  childish 

90 


Keats  91 

caravan.  It  was  a  great  revelation.  In  memory 
I  saw  the  little  walks  we  took,  in  a  series  of 
vignettes,  but  the  whole  lie  of  the  landscape  was 
unfamiliar.  Flying  through  it  in  a  motor,  I  saw 
all  sorts  of  unsuspected  connections  and  near- 
nesses. What  had  seemed  to  me  tracts  of  vast 
and  mysterious  extent,  lying  between  the  range 
of  two  familiar  walks,  resolved  themselves  into 
little  spinnej^s  and  belts  of  trees  just  dividing 
road  from  road.  What  had  appeared  to  me  to 
be  two  perfectly  distinct  forests  were  now 
revealed  as  one  and  the  same  narrow  belt  of 
woodland. 

Thus  in  reading  a  poet  quickly  from  end  to 
end,  one  sees  that  the  lyrics  and  odes  which 
appeared  to  be  so  sharply  differentiated  are  but 
as  separate  flowers  growing  on  the  same  plant. 
One  realises,  too,  the  connection  with  earlier  and 
later  poets,  the  genealogy  of  genius.  I  had  never 
seen  before  how  closely  allied  Keats  was,  in 
"  Hyperion,"  to  Milton — and  with  a  shock  of 
surprise  I  saw  what  a  prodigious  effect  Keats 
had  had  ujion  two  subsequent  poets  so  unlike  as 
Tennyson  and  William  Morris.  Perhaps  there  is 
a  little  loss  of  mystery  and  distance,  but  that  is 
amply  compensated  for  by  the  sense  of  unity  and 
personality  which  one  gains. 

And,  after  all,  the  mystery  is  as  great  as  ever. 
How  did  the  marvellous  boy  with  his  bourgeois 
surroundings,  his  very  inferior  friends,  the  un- 
lovely suburban   atmosphere  which  hangs  even 


92  Along  the  Road 

about  his  splendid  letters — how  did  he  manage 
to  soar  above  it  all,  to  dream  such  remote  and 
delicate  dreams?  More  marvellous  still,  how  did 
he  contrive  to  express  it  all  ?  It  makes  one  wonder 
if  there  is  not  some  secret  pre-existence  about  the 
human  spirit,  when  one  sees  a  boy  using  words 
with  this  incredible  ease  and  felicity,  with  no 
practise  behind  him,  no  apprenticeship,  no  labour, 
no  training.  The  imaginative  part  of  it  is  not 
so-  marvellous — indeed,  "  Endymion  "  reveals  a 
certain  poverty  of  imagination — it  is  the  technical 
skill  of  craftsmanship,  the  instinctive  art,  which 
is  so  utterly  bewildering! 

The  little  book  which  I  read  had  gathered  up 
into  it  all  the  fragments  and  chips  out  of  the 
poet's  workshop,  the  doggerel  he  spun  off  in  his 
letters,  the  dreadful  play  of  "  Otho,"  the  simply 
appalling  '^  Cap  and  Bells,"  that  heartrending 
mixture  of  fantastic  nonsense  and  vulgar  hu- 
mour. I  do  not  think  these  things  ought  to  be 
reprinted,  because  people  of  uncritical  minds  get 
muddled  into  thinking  that  it  is  all  equally  good. 
I  cannot  help  feeling  the  sense  of  horror  and 
shame  which  the  poet  himself  would  have  writhed 
under,  at  the  inclusion  of  these  trivial  and  abject 
bits  of  writing  into  one  and  the  same  volume. 
But  I  was  glad  that  they  were  there  for  my  own 
sake,  because  they  showed  what  a  power  of  self- 
criticism  Keats  had;  and,  moreover,  they  all  cast 
a  certain  light  upon  his  mind — its  exuberance,  its 
gaiety,  its  abandon. 


Keats  93 

The  life  which  it  reveals  is  a  very  tragic  one. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Keats  sowed  the 
seeds  of  consumption  by  his  devoted  tendance  of 
his  invalid  brother,  at  a  time  when  it  was  not 
realised  how  contagious  the  malady  was;  and  he 
developed  it  by  overtiring  himself  on  his  long 
walking  tour,  in  which  he  disregarded  all  rules 
of  diet  and  health.  Then  there  comes  in  his 
frantic  passion  for  a  commonplace  and  rather 
inferior  girl — somewhat  of  a  minx,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told;  and  there  follows  the  horrible 
despair  of  the  last  voyage,  and  the  terrible 
struggle  with  death  in  the  high  house  near  the 
noisy  piazza  in  Rome,  with  all  the  tortures  of 
pent-up  imagination  and  frenzied  love  to  contend 
with;  and  so  he  passes  into  the  unknown,  very 
gallantly  at  last. 

If  one  cares  very  much  for  poetry  and  the 
beauty  of  thought  and  word,  it  is  tempting  to 
lose  oneself  in  a  sad  rebellion  at  the  waste,  the 
ruthless  snapping  of  so  golden  a  thread  of  life 
as  this.  But  it  must  somehow  be  a  very  faithless 
misunderstanding  of  the  meaning  of  life,  if  one 
permits  oneself  so  to  impugn  its  tragedies.  If  we 
believe  in  immortality,  if  we  trust  that  experi- 
ence is  somehow  proportioned  to  the  individual 
need,  we  may  shudder  perhaps  at  the  sharpness 
of  death ;  we  may  feel  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  after 
all  it  is  a  sad  thing  for  a  man  to  lie  down  and 
die;  but  we  must  go  on  to  believe  that  there  is 
a  very  wonderful  secret  involved  in  so  wild  and 


94  Along  the  Road 

mournful  a  prelude.  One  must  be  prepared  to 
think  of  Keats  as  rejoicing  in  his  martyrdom,  the 
fiery  corner  once  turned,  and  as  thus  gaining  for 
his  spirit  a  joy  which  could  be  won  in  no  easier 
fashion. 

But  this  is  all  in  a  region  of  faith  and  hope; 
let  us  interrogate  ourselves  closely  as  to  what  it 
is  that  Keats  and  such  as  Keats  do  for  the  world. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  this  treasure  of  fame 
and  gratitude  heaped  by  mankind  on  such  a  brief 
life?  Keats's  songs  go  on  being  reprinted,  his  life 
is  written  over  and  over  again,  the  most  trivial 
of  his  letters  are  jealously  edited,  the  most  trifling 
records  are  anxiously  ransacked,  to  catch  one 
glimpse  of  him  from  the  oblivious  past.  What 
would  the  great  personages  of  the  day — the  dukes, 
the  politicians,  the  soldiers,  the  courtiers — have 
felt,  if  they  could  have  certainly  foreseen  that 
when  their  achievements  and  progresses  and  con- 
versations had  been  consigned  to  blank  indif- 
ference and  darkness,  the  world  would  still  have 
been  greedy  to  hear  the  meanest  gossip  about  the 
consumptive  medical  student,  sprung  from  the 
livery-stable,  with  a  taste  for  writing  verse? 

And  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  extraordinary 
fact?  Why  does  the  world  cling  so  tenderly  and 
anxiously  to  the  memory  of  its  writers,  to  whom 
it  found  no  time  to  attend  when  they  rose  like 
a  star  in  the  night,  and  take  so  little  interest 
in  the  personality  of  those  whom  at  the  time  it 
envied  and  respected?    There  must  be  something 


Keats  95 

in  ima^nation  and  expressive  art  which  is  very 
dear  to  the  heart  of  the  world.  It  is  surely  that 
the  spirit  of  humanity  is  most  deeply  concerned 
in  finding,  if  it  can,  some  refuge  for  its  wearied 
«elf  from  the  harsh  experience  of  the  world? 
However  much  the  selfish  materialist  may  deride 
tlie  eager  pursuit  of  beauty  as  a  dallying  with 
sentiment  and  emotion,  yet  the  sense  of  the  world 
is  ultimately  on  the  side  of  emotion,  and  in  favour 
of  all  who  can  show  us  how  to  see  and  how  to  feel. 
"  Turn  away  mine  eyes,  lest  they  behold  vanity," 
said  the  Psalmist ;  and  a  poet  like  St.  Augustine, 
after  an  exquisite  apologue  on  the  beauty  of  light, 
"  sliding  by  me  in  unnumbered  guises,"  can  only 
end  by  praying  that  he  may  be  delivered  from  its 
RCMluctions.  But  even  though  one  cannot  rest  in 
tlie  beauty  of  forms  and  colours,  yet  the  more 
that  one  looks  into  the  heart  of  great  moralists 
like  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  the  more  one  realises 
that  they  did  not  see  righteousness  in  the  guise 
of  a  strict  tyrant,  but  as  a  power  so  utterly 
beautiful  that,  having  once  seen  it,  one  could 
never  wholly  lose  the  love  of  it. 

It  is  there,  I  believe,  that  the  secret  lies ;  that  the 
soul  must  pass  on  through  what  seems  brilliant 
and  charming  to  the  love  of  what  is  true  and  pure, 
until  it  can  say,  as  Wordsworth  said  of  duty : 

**  Stern  lawgiver!     Thou  yet  dost  wear 
Thy  godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face." 


0  .^  Ri^  U^  . 


(^yM^ 


RODDY 

Only  a  dog,  after  all !  Yes,  only  the  one  member, 
of  the  household  who  was  never  sick  or  sorry, 
who  was  always  ready  for  play  or  for  companion- 
ship, never  resented  anything,  only  claimed  love; 
who,  if  he  was  punished,  never  thought  any- 
thing but  forgiveness,  never  lost  patience,  was 
never  injured  or  vexed;  if  one  trod  upon  him  by 
accident,  was  sure  that  one  did  it  for  the  best,  and 
came  to  be  pardoned;  who  saw  one  depart  with 
sorrow  and  welcomed  one  back  with  overwhelm- 
iiig  joy.    That  is  what  it  is  to  be  only  a  dog ! 

When  Roddy  came  to  us,  a  collie  puppy,  six 
years  ago,  he  had  been  roughly  trained,  and  could 
not  believe  at  first  that  we  meant  him  well;  but 
in  six  months  he  was  the  darling  of  the  place, 
with  his  hazel  eyes,  so  full  of  expression,  his 
silky,  brown  hair,  his  wavy  tail.  He  learned  end- 
less tricks,  and  was  as  anxious  to  make  out  what 
was  wanted  of  him  as  a  child  could  be,  and  as 
proud  of  showing  off.  He  learned  one  or  two 
things  that  I  never  could  comprehend,  such  as 
distinguishing  between  the  right  and  left  hand, 
however  much  one  interlaced  the  fingers;  and  I 

96 


Roddy  97 

never  saw  a  dog  so  f>erfectly  obedient.  He  made 
friends  with  cats  and  kittens,  fowls  and  pigeons, 
and  even  with  the  peacock — his  only  grief  was 
if  any  of  them  were  taken  more  notice  of  than 
himself.  Then  he  pulled  one's  coat  or  licked  one's 
hand,  and  was  overjoyed  to  be  restored  to  favour. 
He  was  a  sensitive  dog  and  extremely  timid. 
There  were  places  in  the  roads  all  about,  which 
he  would  never  pass,  because  he  had  once  had 
encounters  with  strange  dogs  there.  He  slipped 
oflf,  took  a  circuit,  and  joined  one  again,  apolo- 
gising for  his  absence.  (Thuiu  waa  a-cottage  gatc^ 
close  by,  where  he  once/when  walking  with  me, 
put  his  head  in,  and  was  greeted  with  a  bark 
let  off  straight  in  his  face,  like  a  peal  of  thunder, 
from  a  chained  retriever,  just  round  the  palings.' 
He  came  up  to  me,  i)ale  under  his  coat  and 
shuddering,  with  a  look  of  horror  at  a  world 
where  such  terrors  couldbe)  There  was  even  a 
farmyard  from  which  he  had  fled  in  hot  haste, 
pursued  by  an  elderly  hen. 
V^  At  one  time  he  took  to  going  off  for  a  few  days 
at  a  time.  He  made  friends,  we  thought,  with  a 
family  at  a  farm  a  little  way  off,  and  it  amused 
him  to  pay  visits.  But  my  sister  sewed  round 
his  neck  a  lettpr,  in  a  canvas  case,  addressed  "To 
the  people  at  the  house  where  he  goes,"  and  the 
next  time  he  went  off,  he  came  back  iji  a  twin- 
kling. We  could  never  make  out  that  he  poached 
or  hunted,  but  he  did  ramble  in  the  woods,  no 
doubt,  especially  with  a  naughty  little  mongrel, 

7 


98  Along  the  Road 

who  lived  in  a  hutch  in  the  stable-yard.  So  after 
this  was  discovered,  Toby  went  out  for  his  run 
in  the  morning,  while  Roddy  was  chained  up,  and 
then  Roddy  was  free  for  the  day. 

'iVnd  so  the  happy  life  went  on,  year  by  year. 
Joy  and  sorrow  alike  came  to  the  house,  passed 
through  it,  left  their  mark  on  all  but  Roddy.  He 
alone  knew  nothing  of  it  all ;  and  in  days  of  grief 
and  unhappiness,  it  was  a  relief  that  his  horizon 
at  least  was  unclouded,  that  he  required  his  plate 
to  be  filled,  barked  gently  at  closed  doors,  pleaded 
for  his  walk.  How  often,  in  days  of  ill-health, 
have  T  watched  him  lie  at  my  feet,  chin  on  carpet, 
just  following  every  motion  with  half -open,  up- 
turned e3^e,  ready  to  spring  into  life  at  a  word, 
or  resigning  himself  to  slumber  with  a  happy  sigh. 

One  day,  a  month  ago,  he  slipped  off  at  night- 
fall. The  next  day  he  was  seen  by  the  miller, 
trotting  demurely  along  the  road;  and  that  is 
the  last  we  know  of  him. 

Now,  I  will  not  here  be  sentimental  over  what 
has  happened.  Sentiment  is  the  exaggeration  of 
things  that  are  hardly  sad,  for  the  luxury  of 
pathos.  But  there  is  no  luxury  here.  One  simply 
misses  Roddy  at  every  turn.  I  come  back  after 
an  absence,  and  he  does  not  come  scampering  out 
with  a  joyous  outcry.  His  plate  is  put  away  on 
the  shelf. .  His  chain  rusts  in  the  stable.  Yet  as 
I  go  out  to  walk,  I  glance  round  for  him,  check 
his  name  on  my  lips,  and  at  the  covert  edge  turn 
round  to  see  if  he  is  following. 


Roddy  99 


What  has  happened  to  him  ?  Alas,  T  have  little 
doubt.  I  could  almost  bear  to  think  he  had  been 
kidnapped,  because,  wherever  he  is,  he  will  love 
and  be  loved,  though  perhaps  a  dim  wonder  may 
trouble  his  brain  as  to  what  has  become  of  his 
old  friends. 

But  all  round  us  game  is  carefully  preserved: 
it  is  the  time  when  the  young  pheasants  are  about, 
when  keepers  are  watchful  and  merciless.  I  think 
of  him  as  slipping  into  the  wood.  A  rabbit  bolts 
from  the  fern  and  pops  in  at  a  sandy  hole  under 
the  bank.  The  chase  is  irresistible,  and  Roddy 
sets  to  work  digging  in  the  soft  soil,  so  intent 
that  he  does  not  see  the  keeper  approach  through 
the  bracken.     The  gun  is  cautiously  lifted. 

Well,  I  hope  that,  if  it  had  to  be,  the  shot  did 
its  work.  He  lies  bewildered,  quivering;  perhaps 
a  little  blood  trickles  from  the  hazel  eye,  sur- 
prised and  faint  at  the  last  passage;  the  sandy 
I)aws  twitch  and  are  still.  Then  comes  the  speedy 
burial,  and  the  pretty  brown  limbs,  so  active  an 
hour  ago,  huddled  limply  together  .  .  .  earth  to 
earth.  Roddy  lies  in  the  woodland  he  has  loved, 
and  the  star  peeps  over  the  covert  edge;  soon 
the  rain  drips  upon  the  mound,  where  the  tangled 
hair  and  mouldering  bones  settle  down  for  the 
last  long  sleep. 

I  suppose  no  one  is  to  blame;  a  keeper  but 
obeys  his  orders,  and  a  poaching  dog  Is  a  nuisance, 
so  all  the  love  and  sweet  service  are  swept  away 
that  a  few  sportsmen  may  shoot  a  rabbit  or  two 


100  Along  the  Road 

more,  and  that  the  bag  may  be  fuller.  There  must 
be  something  wrong  with  the  system  that  brings 
that  to  pass,  though  it  is  hard  to  disentangle! 

One  ought  not  to  keep  dogs  at  all,  I  think. 
One  can't  explain  to  them  the  strange  and  brutal 
ways  of  men,  outside  the  charmed  circle  of  gentle 
words  and  caresses.  And  they  leave  such  a  gap, 
such  a  silence,  such  a  sorrowful  ache  of  heart! 
A  dozen  times  I  stop,  as  I  pace  to  and  fro,  re- 
membering how  Koddy  came  bounding  through 
the  high-seeded  grass.  A  dozen  times  I  stand  and 
look,  listen  and  hope  in  vain,  by  open  door  and 
clicking  garden-latch,  by  flower-border  and  sunny 
lawn,  where  Roddy  comes  again  no  more. 


THE  FACE  OF  DEATH 

I  WAS  looking  through  an  old  diary  to-day,  when 
I  came  upon  the  entry  of  an  experience  that  befel 
me  in  Switzerland  a  good  many  years  ago.  It 
was  nothing  less  than  being  face  to  face,  for  some 
twenty  minutes,  not  with  the  possibility  but  with 
the  certainty  of  death.  I  think  it  may  interest 
others  to  know  what  such  an  experience  is  like 
from  the  inside.  I  will  just  tell  the  story  as 
simply  and  plainly  as  I  can.  The  entry  is  so 
full — it  was  made  on  the  following  day — that  I 
am  adding  no  details;  in  fact,  there  are  certain 
unnecessary  points  which  I  shall  omit. 

I  was  staying  at  the  Bel  Alp  in  August,  1896, 
with  a  friend,  Herbert  Tatham,  who  has  since, 
strange  and  sad  to  say,  lost  his  life  in  the  Alps. 
We  were  doing  a  good  deal  of  climbing,  and  were 
in  full  training.  I  must  add  that  a  week  or  two 
before  there  had  been  a  fatal  accident  at  the 
same  place;  an  elderly  man,  a  lawyer  I  think, 
whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  lost  his  footing  on 
a  steep  rocky  ridge  not  far  from  the  hotel,  and 
was  killed  by  the  fall. 

It  was  just  at  the  end  of  our  stay.    We  had 

lOl 


i^^  Along  the  Road 

got  up  early  one  moruiug  and  had  climbed  the 
Unter-bachhorii,  a  little  rock  peak  not  very  far 
from  the  hotel.  It  was  not  a  difficult  climb.  The 
day  was  exquisitely  fine,  and  we  were  in  high 
spirits.  We  left  the  rocks  to  cross  the  Unter- 
bachhorn  glacier,  below  which  there  was  nothing 
but  grass  slopes.  The  glacier  is  a  very  smooth 
one,  with  no  visible  crevasses;  just  a  surface  of 
slightly  undulatuig  snow  and  ice,  but  at  a  steep 
angle.  We  were  still  roped,  Clemens  Ruppen,  the 
guide,  in  front,  I  came  next,  and  Tatham  was 
behind.  The  snow  was  a  little  soft.  We  were 
going  at  a  good  pace,  when  I  saw  by  the  marks 
on  the  glacier,  to  left  and  right,  that  we  were 
crossing  a  concealed  crevasse.  At  the  same  in- 
stant the  snow  gave  way  under  my  foot.  I  gave 
a  spring,  but  trod  short  of  the  other  side,  and 
swung  down  into  the  cavity  like  a  sack.  My  first 
thought  was  one  of  amusement,  and  I  expected 
to  be  jerked  out  in  an  instant.  W^hen  the  snow 
that  came  down  with  me  had  fallen  past  me,  I 
looked  about  to  see  where  I  was.  I  was  hanging 
at  the  very  top  of  a  huge  wide  blue  crevasse,  as 
though  I  were  dangling  at  the  very  summit  of 
the  vaulting  of  a  cathedral.  I  could  see  by  the 
rather  dim  light  that  the  crevasse  stretched  a 
long  way — perhaps  eighty  yards — to  my  left,  and 
not  very  far  to  my  right.  There  were  great  ice- 
bridges  spanning  the  gulf,  perhaps  ten  feet  below 
me,  but  to  my  left  and  right — and  there  were 
none  immediately  beneath.     The  upper  part  of 


The  Face  of  Death  103 

the  crevasse  was  all  a  delicate  blue  colour,  but 
it  ran  down  to  a  black  fathomless  gulf,  with  an 
unseen  stream  roaring  below.  I  made  desperate 
efforts  to  lodge  my  back  against  one  side  and 
my  feet  against  the  other,  but  the  crevasse  was 
too  wide  and  sloped  away  from  me,  and  the  ice 
was  very  hard  and  smooth.  I  could  not  get  a 
hold  or  a  purchase  of  any  kind.  I  tried  to  dig 
my  painted  stick  in,  but  the  surface  was  too  hard. 
These  exertions  were  very  laborious,  and,  sus- 
pended as  I  was  by  the  rope  under  my  arms,  I 
felt  I  could  not  persevere  long. 

I  was  hanging  with  my  head  about  four  or  five 
feet  below  the  edge,  and  the  guide  hauled  me  up 
to  within  a  foot  or  two  from  the  top,  but  I  could 
not  reach  the  other  side.  Moreover,  the  ice 
against  which  I  was  drawn  overhung,  so  that 
every  tug  jammed  me  against  it. 

The  guide  shouted  to  Tatham  to  cross  the 
crevasse.  I  heard  him  jump  over,  and  a  good 
deal  of  snow  fell  on  me.  They  then  both  pulled, 
^ly  left  arm,  unfortunately,  was  caught  between 
the  two  lengths  of  rope.  It  was  instantly  numbed, 
and  was  drawn  up  against  the  overhanging  ice, 
so  that  I  thought  it  would  break.  The  rope  round 
me  kept  tightcMiing  as  they  pulled.  I  heard  the 
guide  groan  as  he  tugged ;  they  shouted  to  me  at 
intervals  that  it  would  be  all  right  in  a  moment. 

Then  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  I  became 
horribly  faint.  My  knee,  which  I  had  jammed 
against  the  ice,  slipped,  and  I  swung  down  sev- 


104  Along  the  Road 

eral  feet.  Again  I  was  pulled  up,  again  I  got 
my  knee  against  the  ice;  again  it  slipped,  and 
I  swung  down.     This  happened  four  or  five  times. 

Then  they  desisted  for  a  moment,  and  Tatham, 
coming  nearer  the  edge,  cut  away  the  lip  of  the 
crevasse  with  his  axe.  The  snow  fell  upon  my 
upturned  face,  some  of  it  into  my  mouth,  which 
refreshed  me.  But  whether  it  was  that  the  snow 
filled  up  the  space  between  my  shirt  and  coat,  or 
whether  the  rope  was  tightened,  I  do  not  know; 
but  now  my  right  hand  became  numb.  My  cap 
fell  off,  and  I  could  see  my  hand,  which  was  on 
a  level  with  my  face,  grow  white  and  rigid,  and 
the  stick  fell  from  it  without  my  being  able  to 
retain  it  in  my  stiffened  fingers;  and  I  then  be- 
came aware  that  I  was  strangling.  I  shouted 
out  to  Tatham  that  this  was  the  case,  but  either 
he  did  not  hear  me  properly  or  could  not  get 
thl^^ide  to  understand,  for  the  rope  kept  on 
tightening.  The  danger,  I  afterwards  learned, 
was  that  they  dared  not  go  too  near  to  the  lip 
of  the  crevasse,  which  was  thin  and  brittle,  for 
if  one  of  them  had  slipped  in,  the  other  could 
not  have  sustained  two  of  us,  and  we  must  all 
have  inevitably  fallen  to  the  bottom. 

Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  me  that  I  was 
doomed.  I  saw  that  I  should  either  die  by 
strangulation,  or  that  I  should  lose  conscious- 
ness and  slip  through  the  rope,  which  was  rising 
higher  and  higher  towards  my  arms.  The  strange 
thing  was  that  I  had  no  sense  of  fear,  only  a 


The  Face  of  Death  105 

dim  wonder  as  to  how  I  should  die,  and  whether 
thefall  would  kill  rae  at  once.  I  had  no  edifying 
thoughts.  I  did  not  review  my  past  life  or  my 
many  failings.  I  wondered  that  a  second  fatal 
accident  should  happen  so  soon  in  the  same  place, 
thought  a  little  of  my  relations,  and  of  Eton, 
where  I  was  a  master,  wondered  who  would  suc- 
ceed to  my  boarding-house,  and  how  my  pupils 
would  be  arranged  for.  I  remember,  too,  specula- 
ting what  death  would  be  like.  But  I  was  now 
rapidly  becoming  unconscious,  with  the  veins  in 
my  head  beating  like  hammers,  and  I  heard  a 
horrible  snoring  sound  in  my  ears,  which  I  dimly 
understood  to  be  my  own  labouring  breath.  Open- 
ing my  eyes,  which  I  had  shut,  I  saw  the  chasm 
all  full  of  my  floating  breath.  All  this  time  I 
did  not  know  what  they  were  doing,  when  sud- 
denly a  shower  of  ice  and  snow  fell  on  me  and 
around  me.  Then  there  was  a  silence.  I '^tried 
feebly  to  put  my  foot  out  again  to  the  side,  but 
could  not  hardly  move  it.  Then  I  think  I  did 
become  unconscious  for  a  moment,  my  last 
thought  being  a  sort  of  anxious  longing  to  get 
tlie  thing  over  as  soon  as  possible. 

I  did  not  know  and  did  not  care  what  they 
were  doing  above  me,  as  I  have  said,  if,  indeed, 
T  was  aware  of  anything  but  failing  life  and 
swimming  darkness;  wiien  suddenly  the  beating 
in  my  head  relaxed,  and  I  knew  that  I  was  still 
alive.  There  came  a  steady  strain  and  a  jerk; 
I   was  drawn  out  of  the  chasm,  and  saw  the 


i06  Along  the  Road 

glacier  and  the  plain  beyond,  and  felt  the  sun. 
I  saw  the  two  below  me  pulling  desperately^  at 
the  ropesi  I  contrived  to  put  my  foot  upon  the 
edge  behind  me  and  give  a  thrust,  and  next 
minute  I  came  out  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  ice. 
The  guide  lost  his  own  balance,  and  fell  over  on 
his  face  at  the  sudden  relaxing  of  the  strain. 

Then  came  the  oddest  experience  of  all.  I  was 
not  for  a  minute  or  two  conscious  of  any  relief 
of  mind  or  gladness;  I  had  a  sense  of  painfully 
reviving  energy,  as  of  one  awakened  from  sleep, 
and  indeed  a  half-wish  that  I  had  not  been  re- 
called to  life,  as  though  interrupted  in  a  nearly 
completed  task.  I  saw,  too,  by  the  pallor  of  my 
friend  and  by  the  childlike  emotion  of  the  guide, 
how  far  worse  it  had  been  for  them  than  for  me. 
The  guide  moaned  and  shed  tears,  embraced  me 
and  laid  his  cheek  to  mine,  held  me  at  arm's 
length,  and  embraced  me  again.  I  found  that 
he  had  run  a  great  risk  to  save  me;  he  had  come 
close  to  the  edge,  and  hewed  it  all  away  with 
his  axe ;  without  this  I  could  not  have  been  saved, 
and  a  fracture  of  the  ice  or  a  slip  would  have 
been  the  end  of  all  three  of  us.  I  was  stiff  and 
bruised,  my  hands  very  much  cut  from  the  edge 
of  the  ice,  my  knees  black  and  blue;  and  I  car- 
ried the  pattern  of  the  rope  stamped  on  my  back 
for  some  weeks.  I  suppose  that  about  twenty 
minutes  in  all  had  elapsed  since  my  fall.  I  did 
not  feel  shaken,  though  thirsty  and  languid ;  but 
I  addressed  the  guide  as  Felix — the  name  of  a 


The  Face  of  Death  107 

former  guide — for  a  minute  or  two;  and  in  five 
minutes  we  were  descending  the  glacier  home- 
wards. The  time  had  not  seemed  at  all  long  to 
me;  and,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  no  touch  of  pain, 
only  faintness  and  discomfort,  and  no  sense  either 
of  dread  or  fear.  It  only  gradually  came  upon 
me  what  I  ji^tid  escajjgd. 

Twasfeverish  and  uncomfortable  in  the  even- 
ing, but  slept  sound  without  any  dreams;  and  I 
have  never  been  able  to  trace  any  evil  effects  or 
any  loss  of  nerve  to  the  incident.  I  suppose  that 
the  whole  thing  was  so  brief  and  painless  that 
the  nerves  really  did  suffer  no  particular  shock. 
The  cuts  on  my  hands  healed  with  quite  incredible 
rapidity,  owing,  I  was  told,  to  the  untainted 
material — the  purest  ice — with  which  the  wounds 
were  inflicted.  I  remember  that  Clemens  came 
the  next  day  to  see  me,  and  told  Tatham  that 
he  had  kept  waking  in  nightmare  and  agita- 
tion all  the  succeeding  night,  "  in  fear  for  the 
lieber  Herr,  Erzbischofsohn,  my  friend,  whom  I 
love." 

That  is  the  story  of  my  taste  of  death.  The 
strange  thing  about  it  to  me  was  its  utter  un- 
likeness  to  anything  that  I  should  have  imagined 
such  an  experience  to  be,  the  simplicity  of  it,  tlie 
commonplace  thoughts  that  came  to  me,  the  en- 
tire absence  of  any  tragic,  or  melodramatic,  or 
indeed  emotional  elements.  I  should  have  sup- 
posed, indeed,  that  it  would  have  been  all  emo- 
tion;  but   I   suppose   that   emotion   comes   with 


io8  Along  the  Road 

reflection,  and  that  we  pass  through  the  most 
critical  and  tragic  moments  of  life  without  any 
immediate  consciousness  that  they  are  either 
critical  or  tragic  at  all. 


THE  AWETO 

I  WAS  dining  the  other  night  with  some  friends; 
after  dinner  our  host  said  that  he  had  something 
very  curious  to  show  us.  He  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  returned  in  a  moment  with  a  shallow, 
blue  box,  which  he  opened  very  carefully.  In- 
side the  box  there  was  a  dry  and  shrivelled  cater- 
pillar about  three  inches  long;  out  of  its  head 
grew  a  long  horn,  which  must  have  been  at  least 
twice  as  long  as  the  caterpillar.  Some  one  said 
that  the  horn  must  be  a  very  inconvenient  ap- 
pendage. Our  host  laughed  and  said  that  it  was 
a  very  inconvenient  appendage  indeed,  but  fortu- 
nately the  caterpillar  had  been  unaware  of  the 
inconvenience.  He  told  us  that  it  was  a  rare 
specimen.  It  came,  he  said,  from  New  Zealand, 
and  it  is  called  the  Aweto.  It  is  a  caterpillar 
which  lives  underground.  Its  habits  are  mys- 
terious. No  one  knows  how  it  propagates  its 
species,  or  what  it  turns  into.  It  lives  on  eating 
seeds  which  it  finds  in  the  earth.  There  is  one 
particular  seed  or  spore  which  it  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  to  eat,  but  it  cannot  swallow  or 
digest  it.  The  seed  sticks  in  its  throat,  and  im- 
109 


no  Along  the  Road 

mediately  in  that  congenial  position  it  begins  to 
sprout.  The  plant  breaks  out  behind  the  cater- 
pillar's head,  and  the  roots  grow  into  its  body. 
The  plant  comes  up  like  a  slender  rush;  little  is 
known  of  the  plant  either,  but  it  does  not  appear 
to  be  able  to  germinate  unless  it  is  found  and 
eaten  by  this  particular  caterpillar.  I  said  that 
it  all  reminded  me  of  the  Bread-and-Butter-fly  in 
Through  the  Looking  Glass,  which  lived  upon 
weak  tea  and  bread  and  butter.  Alice  asked  the 
Gnat  what  happened  if  it  could  not  find  any,  and 
the  Gnat  replied  that  it  died.  Alice  said  that 
this  must  happen  very  often,  to  which  the  Gnat 
replied,  "  It  always  happens."  The  whole  story, 
in  fact,  is  so  entirely  whimsical  that  it  seems  to 
suggest  that  Nature  is  sometimes  actuated  by  an 
irresponsible  and  rather  cruel  kind  of  humour. 
Such  an  extraordinary  chain  of  circumstances 
can  hardly  come  by  chance,  and  yet  so  fortuitous 
and  uncomfortable  an  arrangement  seems  hardly 
worth  while  inventing.  Yet  it  goes  on!  The 
plant  presumably  sheds  its  seed  into  the  ground 
in  the  hopes  that  some  other  Aweto  may  come 
along  and  do  what  is  necessary.  While  if  some 
more  fortunate  Aweto,  in  the  course  of  its  sub- 
terranean existence,  does  not  come  across  one  of 
these  particular  seeds,  it  may  live  a  happy  and 
blameless  life,  and  turn  into  whatever  it  has  a 
mind  to  become. 

Our  host  said  that  he  believed  that  the  story 
of  the  Aweto  had  once  been  used  by  a  preacher 


The  Aweto  iii 

before  Queen  Victoria,  as  an  illustration  in  his 
sermon,  and  that  the  Queen  had  been  so  much 
interested  in  the  story  that  she  had  asked  to  have 
an  Aweto  sent  for  her  inspection  from  some 
Natural  History  Museum.  I  find  it  hard  to 
think  what  the  application  can  have  been.  The 
poor  Aweto  has  got  to  live,  and  it  can  hardly 
be  expected  to  know,  without  being  expressly 
informed,  that  the  particular  seed  in  question 
has  such  very  unpleasant  habits  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  Aweto.  Neither  can  it  be  expected 
that  the  Aweto,  on  finding  what  it  had  done, 
would  leave  its  burrow  and  betake  itself  to  the 
nearest  medical  man  for  assistance,  as  the  lion 
with  the  thorn  in  its  foot  came  to  Androcles  in  the 
old  story.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  highly 
satisfactory  if  the  Aweto  knew  of  some  other  seed 
which  would  act,  let  us  say,  as  an  emetic,  and 
more  appropriate  still  if  the  Aweto  were  prudent 
enough  to  carry  a  small  store  of  medicinal  seeds 
about  with  it  in  case  of  emergencies ! 

But  I  suppose  that  in  a  general  way  the  story 
may  be  taken  to  apply  to  the  indulgence  of  some 
fault,  of  a  kind  which  seems  harmless  and  natural 
enough;  because  the  essence  of  the  situation  is 
that  the  Aweto  does  not  appear  to  know,  as  most 
animals  do,  that  the  particular  seed  is  not  good 
for  it  to  eat. 

It  seems  to  me  very  much  like  the  failing  to 
which  good  people  are  prone — the  tendency  to 
enjoy  finding  fault  with  others.     It  seems  at  first 


112  Along  the  Road 

sight  that  this  is  rather  a  noble  and  conscientious 
thing  to  do;  if  you  are  quite  sure  that  you  are 
right,  and  have  a  strong  belief  in  the  virtuous 
and  high  quality  of  your  own  principles,  you 
begin  to  practice  what  is  called  dealing  faith- 
fully with  other  people,  pulling  them  up,  check- 
ing them,  drenching  them  with  good  advice, 
improving  the  tone.  Such  people  often  say  that 
of  course  they  do  not  like  doing  it,  but  that  they 
must  bear  witness  to  what  they  believe  to  be 
right.  Of  course,  it  is  sometimes  necessary  in 
this  world  to  protest;  but  the  worst  of  the  cen- 
sorious habit  of  mind  is  this,  that  it  begins  with 
principles  and  then  extends  to  preferences.  The 
self-righteous  man  begins  to  feel  that  the  hours 
he  keeps,  the  occupations  he  follows,  the  recrea- 
tions he  enjoys,  the  food  which  agrees  with  him, 
are  not  matters  of  personal  taste,  but  things  that 
are  virtuous  and  high-minded.  If  he  likes  jam 
with  his  tea,  he  will  say  that  fruit  is  always 
wholesome,  and  that  the  taste  for  jam  is  a  sign 
of  a  simple  and  unspoilt  palate.  If  he  does  not 
like  jam  with  his  tea,  he  will  say  that  it  is  waste- 
ful and  luxurious,  and  that  people  ought  not  to 
tamper  with  their  digestions.  If  he  likes  going 
to  the  theatre,  he  says  that  the  drama  is  an  in- 
spiring and  ennobling  thing;  if  he  does  not  like 
the  theatre,  he  will  say  that  it  is  a  waste  of  time 
and  a  pernicious  and  distracting  influence,  beset 
with  moral  dangers.  As  life  goes  on  he  becomes 
an  intolerable  person  with  whom  no  one  can  feel 


The  Aweto  113 

at  ease.  One  cannot  say  what  one  thinks  be- 
fore him,  for  fear  of  incurring  his  disapproval. 
The  head  of  the  rush  is  beginning  to  show  above 
ground,  and  the  roots  are  spreading  into  the  body! 
Tlien  perhaps  the  censorious  person  marries,  and 
improves  his  family  out  of  all  sympathy  with 
\v!iat  is  fine  and  generous,  by  making  goodness 
into  a  thoroughly  disagreeable  thing,  which  is 
never  comfortable  unless  it  is  making  some  one 
else  uncomfortable. 

The  pity  of  it  is  that  the  censorious  man  is 
80  often  a  fine  character  spoiled  by  egotism.  One 
of  the  things  which  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
do  in  life  is  to  distinguish  between  principles  and 
preferences ;  and  even  if  one  holds  principles  very 
strongly,  it  is  generally  better  to  act  up  to  them, 
and  to  trust  to  the  effect  of  example,  than  to 
bump  other  people,  as  Dickens  said,  into  paths 
of  peace. 

It  is  often  said  by  people  of  this  type  that 
praise  is  unwholesome,  and  that  in  bringing  up 
a  child  one  must  never  commend  it  for  any  un- 
selfishness or  self-restraint  or  perseverance,  be- 
cause people  ought  not  to  get  to  depend  upon 
I>raise.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  said 
that  a  child  who  is  always  being  scolded  and 
never  has  the  sense  of  its  parents'  or  teachers' 
approval  gets  into  a  stupefied  and  disheartened 
condition  and  gives  up  the  game  in  despair,  be- 
cause whatever  it  does  it  is  sure  to  be  put  in 
the  wrong.    I  found,  in  my  twenty  years'  experi- 


114  Along  the  Road 

ence  as  a  schoolmaster,  that  well-deserved  praise 
was  the  most  potent  factor  of  improvement  in 
the  world;  to  neglect  it  is  to  throw  away  de- 
liberately one  of  the  strongest  and  most  beautiful 
of  natural  and  moral  forces.  .  .  . 

Well,  we  have  drifted  far  enough  away  from 
the  poor  Aweto  and  its  ruthless  invader.  It  is 
a  pity  to  run  one's  metaphor  too  hard;  and  it 
is  a  mistake,  I  think,  to  draw  analogies  too  freely 
between  natural  processes  and  moral  processes. 
The  essence  of  the  natural  process  is  its  inevi- 
tability and  its  inflexibility.  No  species  of  edu- 
cation could  be  devised  for  the  Aweto  which  could 
lead  it  to  exercise  a  wiser  selection  of  food ;  while 
the  essence  of  the  moral  process  is  that  there  is 
a  faculty  of  choice,  limited  no  doubt  by  circum- 
stance and  heredity,  but  still  undoubtedly  there. 
But  the  poor  Aweto  is  a  parable,  for  all  that,  of 
many  sad  things  which  happen  about  us  day  by 
day;  while  if  we  choose  to  invert  the  image,  and 
to  consider  the  question  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  rush,  we  may  consider  the  Aweto  to  be 
the  type  of  a  fine  kind  of  unselfishness  which 
gives  itself  up  without  calculation  or  reluctance, 
and  lays  down  its  life  that  some  root  of  beauty 
may  send  a  growing  head  of  greenness  and 
freshness  into  sunshine  and  air. 


THE  OLD  FAMILY  NURSE 

1  Ji:th,  as  we  called  her,  and  as  her  name  is  written 
in  many  hearts,  was  born  in  1818.  She  had  a 
little  simple  teaching  at  a  dame's  school;  the 
small  children  were  tanght  to  spell  and  read; 
the  elder  girls  sewed  and  read  alond.  She  was 
v(»ry  happy  at  school,  she  used  to  say ;  but  where 
^v  as  Beth  not  happy?  It  was  a  slender  outfit, 
hut  it  was  enough  for  all  she  had  to  do. 

When  she  was  sixteen,  in  1834,  she  went  to 
l)e  nursemaid  in  the  family  of  my  grandfather, 
the  Hev.  William  Sidgwick,  Headmaster  of  Skip- 
ton  Grammar  School.  He  was  a  delicate  man 
and  died  young;  my  grandmother  was  left  a 
widow  with  six  little  children,  of  whom  two  died 
in  infancy,  and  eventually  settled  at  Rugby. 
Beth  brought  them  all  up— William  Sidgwick, 
formerly  tutor  of  Merton;  Henry  Sidgwick,  the 
Cambridge  Professor;  Arthur  Sidgwick,  the 
Rugby  master,  afterwards  tutor  of  Corpus  Col- 
lege, Oxford ;  and  my  mother.  My  father  went 
to  Rugby  as  a  master  in  1852,  and  lived  with  the 
Sidgwicks,  who  were  his  cousins;  he  married  in 
1859,  and  went  to  Wellington  College  as  Head- 
"5 


ii6  Along  the  Road 

master ;  Beth  came  on  there  as  nurse  in  1860, 
and  brought  up  all  of  us,  going  on  with  us  to 
Lincoln  and  Truro,  and  coming  on  to  Lambeth 
as  housekeeper.  Since  my  father's  death  she  had 
lived  on  with  my  mother,  full  of  activity  and 
energy  till  she  had  passed  her  ninetieth  year.  In 
the  last  eighteen  months  she  w^as  confined  to  bed 
and  sofa.  Even  so  her  illness  was  not  unhappy; 
she  could  enjoy  reading  and  talk,  and  welcome 
with  smiles  her  many  visitors.  On  May  5,  1911, 
she  just  breathed  away  her  life,  dying  like  a 
tired  child. 

Thus  she  had  been  nearly  seventy-seven  years 
in  one  family,  and  wholly  identified  with  its  in- 
terests and  affections.  Her  room  was  a  little 
gallery  of  pictures  and  photographs,  the  many 
scenes  of  her  long  life,  and  the  faces  of  those 
whom  she  had  tended  and  loved.  There  seems 
hardly  any  affection  that  is  closer  than  that,  with 
no  tie  of  blood  behind  it,  but  yet  having  shared 
every  experience  and  association,  every  sorrow 
and  joy  with  us;  everything  told  to  her,  every- 
thing confided  to  her,  her  whole  heart  and  memory 
a  mine  rich  in  the  secrets  of  love  and  life. 

She  was  a  slight,  spare  Yorkshire  woman,  with 
the  perfect  health  that  comes  of  a  strong  consti- 
tution and  a  mind  always  occupied  with  the 
thought  of  other  people.  She  had  severe  illnesses 
in  her  later  years,  but  rallied  from  them.  Her 
face,  strong  and  expressive,  and  with  a  touch  of 
austerity,  even  severity  as  I  first  knew  it,  had 


The  Old  Family  Nurse         117 

softened  into  one  of  the  sweetest  and  moat 
radiant  of  expressions  I  ever  saw,  full  of  tran- 
(luil  goodwill;  and  in  her  later  years,  free  from 
nursery  responsibilities,  she  had  developed  a 
gaiety  and  a  childlike  zest  in  the  little  incidents 
of  life  that  was  even  surprising.  She  loved  to 
be  made  fun  of,  and  to  have  her  old  strictness 
recognised,  and  she  was  full  of  shrewd  repartees 
mid  homely  epigrams.  She  had  a  very  shrewd 
and  even  stern  judgment  of  character,  but  for 
those  whom  she  loved  she  had  a  perfectly  un- 
critical and  unquestioning  affection.  She  kept 
her  opinions  of  people  to  herself,  unless  there 
was  need  to  speak;  and  even  so  she  was  always 
on  the  side  of  example  rather  than  precept.  Her 
displeasure,  in  nursery  days,  was  very  slow  in 
coming,  and  silent  and  sorrowful  when  it  came; 
but  if  Beth  had  reason  to  feel  ashamed  at  some- 
thing one  had  done  or  said,  there  was  nothing 
that  one  would  not  attempt  to  regain  her  good 
opinion.  She  never  scolded,  never  interfered;  she 
hardly  ever  even  played  with  us;  sometimes  she 
could  be  persuaded  to  tell  a  little  story,  but  it 
was  always  of  real  life.  She  was  always  at  work 
for  us,  always  ready  to  provide  anything  for  us, 
or  to  clear  anything  away,  stopping  the  nursery, 
racket,  if  it  became  unbearable,  by  a  word,  and 
never  severe  except  to  unkindness  or  quarrelsome- 
ness; she  never  lectured  or  indulged  in  moral 
reflections ;  she  made  us  many  presents,  and  loved 
giving  pleasure  more  than  anything  else  in  the 


ii8  Along  the  Road 

world ;  she  made  no  parade  of  her  qualities,  aud, 
indeed,  never  compared  herself  with  any  one.  It 
was,  I  think,  inconceivable  to  her  that  any  one 
should  be  selfish  or  dishonest  or  unkind.  She 
enjoyed  her  work,  and  she  never  seemed  tired  or 
fretted;  neither  was  she  ever  unemployed.  Her 
work  done,  in  the  later  years,  she  would  trot 
about  the  house,  look  after  the  clothes  of  any  of 
her  children  who  happened  to  be  at  home;  and 
if  something  was  lacking,  it  would  be  found  that 
Beth  had  as  often  as  not  supplied  it  out  of  her 
own  pocket.  So  it  went  on  day  after  day,  the 
same  perfectly  faithful,  unobtrusive  service,  never 
claiming  the  least  gratitude  or  honour — just  glad 
to  be  with  those  she  loved,  and  happy  to  spend 
herself,  her  time  and  thought,  in  tending  and 
pleasing  them. 

She  had  a  great  natural  dignity  of  manner  and 
speech;  she  was  just  as  much  at  home  in  the  big 
households  of  Lambeth  and  Addington  as  she  had 
been  in  the  old,  simple  days,  and  she  was  re- 
garded by  every  one  with  natural  affection  and 
respect.  She  was  brought  into  contact  with 
many  distinguished  people,  and  behaved  to  them 
all  with  a  perfectly  unaffected  directness  and 
courtesy.  She  received  Queen  Victoria  in  the 
Wellington  College  nursery,  and  answered  her 
kind  questions  with  simple  straightforwardness, 
giving  her  the  title  of  "My  Majesty";  and  in 
later  years  she  would  do  the  honours  of  her  little 
room  to  a  bishop  or  a  dean  with  the  same  perfect 


The  Old  Family  Nurse         119 

sweetness  and  naturalness,  taking  people  as  they 
were,  and  not  as  they  were  called.  She  never 
claimed  the  time  or  the  attention  of  any  one. 
If  one  was  at  home,  she  would  come  in  just  for 
a  word  and  a  look  to  satisfy  herself  that  the 
nursling  had  returned  to  the  nest.  She  said 
good-bye  with  tears,  and  my  last  vision  of  home 
for  many  years,  on  departure  to  work,  has  been 
the  sight  of  Beth  waving  her  handkerchief  at  the 
little  casement  of  her  room,  to  return  to  her  work 
with  a  thought  of  love  and  sorrowful  farewell. 
When,  after  my  father's  death,  we  were  all  for 
a  time  dispersed,  she  was  staying  with  her  York- 
shire relations,  suffering  much  from  home-sick- 
ness and  the  absence  of  dear  faces,  and  hearing 
that  my  youngest  brother  was  to  pass  through 
town  on  his  way  to  his  curacy,  she  came  up  alone 
to  a  London  terminus,  just  to  get  a  sight  of  him, 
had  a  few  half-tearful,  half-joyful  words  with  him, 
and  gallantly  returned. 

The  wonder  of  it  all!  Fresh  as  I  am  from  a 
sense  of  her  loss,  and  with  the  thought  of  all 
the  old  days  of  tendance  and  affection  breaking 
on  the  mind  in  waves  of  memory,  I  do  not  want 
to  exaggerate  or  to  say  more  than  I  believe;  but 
it  does  seem  to  me  one  of  the  most  perfect  lives 
that  could  be  lived,  in  its  humility,  its  sweetness, 
its  devotion,  its  dutifulness,  and  in  its  abounding 
love.  The  materials  so  simple,  the  outfit  so 
slight,  the  worth  of  it  so  pure  and  true.  There 
is  something  amazing  about  the  entire  absence 


I20  Along  the  Road 

of  personal  claim,  the  generosity,  the  fulness  of 
it  all.  She  was  one  of  the  few  people  I  have 
ever  known  who  really  foiimLit  more  blessed  to 
g4ve^han  to  receive,  who  only  asked  of  life  that 
she  might  work,  and  love,  and  be  loved. 

It  was  all  so  fine  in  its  quality ;  her  clear  judg- 
ment, her  love  of  beautiful  things,  her  splendid 
sense  and  calmness,  her  perfect  helpfulness  in 
sorrow  or  trouble,  the  utter  absence  of  any 
morbidity  or  self-pity,  of  any  reference  to  her 
own  rights  or  needs.  She  did  not  draw  a  line 
round  her  work,  or  claim  any  leisure  or  ease ;  she 
simply  never  thought  about  herself  at  all;  if 
there  was  work  to  be  done,  she  enjoj^ed  doing 
it;  if  there  was  time  disengaged,  there  was  some 
one  whom  she  could  please;  and  her  simplicity 
about  it  all  was  not  the  effort  of  a  sincere  nature 
striving  against  complacency;  it  was  simply  the 
instinctive  gratitude  for  life,  its  homely  duties 
and  its  dear  cares.  It  was  not  as  if  she  had  not 
tastes  and  preferences;  she  loved  travelling,  and 
was  transported  by  scenery.  She  came  with  us 
more  than  once  to  Switzerland,  and  on  first  catch- 
ing sight  of  snow-mountains,  "  Is  it  seen  with 
the  eye  ?  "  she  said.  She  loved,  too,  the  beauty 
of  words,  enjoyed  poetry  and  good  books;  and 
the  only  difficulty  in  reading  to  her  in  later  life 
was  that  she  could  not  bear  to  hear  of  anything 
unkind  or  unhappy. 

I  do  not  know  what  her  religious  faith  was; 
she  could  not  have  explained  it;  but  she  knew 


The  Old  Family  Nurse         121 

the  meaning  of  the  large  words  of  life — pardon, 
love,  and  peace — and  she  lived  so  entirely  in  the 
spirit  of  Christ  that  she  had  little  need  to  think 
about  points  of  doctrine.  The  last  things  she 
cared  to  hear  were  simple  old  hymns,  which  she 
repeated  softly  to  herself  with  the  reader,  till 
the  day  when  my  mother  said  to  her,  "  You  are 
sleepy,  Beth;  you  would  like  to  go  to  sleep?" 
"  Yes,  to  sleep,  and  to  forget  everything!"  with 
a  tired  smile. 

Well,  it  is  all  over  and  done,  and  the  worn-out 
body  sleeps  in  a  little  Sussex  churchyard.  I  shall 
never  see  her  again,  slipping  lightly  down  to  greet 
me,  -as  the  wheels  grated  on  the  gravel,  or  see  her 
waving  farewell  through  her  tears.  But  neither 
can  I  think  of  her  as  at  rest.  Even  when  the 
body  that  had  toiled  so  faithfully  gave  way  at  last, 
the  mind  and  the  spirit,  the  desire  to  serve  and 
love,  were  just  as  strong  and  fresh  as  ever.  The 
dear  hands,  once  so  worn  with  work,  grew  soft 
and  white  in  those  last  months,  and  she  would 
look  wonderingly  at  them,  as  if  surprised  at  their 
lack  of  strength  and  use ;  but  one  feels  of  a  spirit 
like  hers  that  it  must  pass  refreshed  and  renewed 
to  some  further  heavenly  service.  If  there  are 
souls  to  serve  and  love,  Beth  will  somehow  find 
them  out  to  tend  and  comfort  them! 

And  how  such  a  life  puts  to  shame  one's  de- 
signs and  hopes  and  ambitions  and  claims!  It 
teaches  one  how  entirely  happy  life  could  be, 
lived  on  the  simplest  lines,  if  only  one  cared  for 


122  Along  the  Road 

others  rather  than  for  oneself,  and  took  a  natural 
joy  in  work,  instead  of  thinking  of  it  as  some- 
thing troublesome  and  tedious,  to  be  discharged 
and  put  aside;  and  it  shows  one,  too,  how  the 
personal  relation,  the  brimming-over  tenderness, 
the  absorption  in  others,  is  what  matters  most 
of  all,  and  survives  when  all  other  hopes  and 
desires  decay.  It  is  surely  the  one  thing  that 
does  matter.  If  all  enjoyed  work  and  lived  for 
love,  like  Beth,  the  world  would  be  a  simple  and 
a  happy  place.  She  never  resisted  sorrow,  nor 
repined  at  any  loss  or  trouble;  she  did  not  dwell 
on  her  right  to  be  happy.  If  others  were  suffer- 
ing, she  simply  poured  her  healing  love  and  care 
into  the  gap;  and  all  this  with  no  sense  of  recti- 
tude, no  rigid  adherence  to  principle;  her  prin- 
ciples were,  with  her,  what  sustained  life  and 
conduct,  not  things  to  be  used  to  correct  and 
terrify  others  with — and  the  motive  of  all  was 
love.  One  must  believe  that  temperament  has  yet 
its  varied  work;  but  by  seeing  and  feeling  the 
beauty  of  such  a  life,  in  one's  sorrow  for  the 
loss  of  it  and  one's  gratitude  for  the  gift  of  it, 
one  may  surely  get  a  little  closer  to  the  truth. 

She  was  the  first  human  being  of  whose  love 
I  was  directly  conscious,  and  her  tender  care  has 
enveloped  my  whole  life,  as  boy  and  man;  the 
beloved  nurse,  and  the  dearest  friend  I  have  ever 
known  or  shall  know.  I  mean  to  be  better,  purer, 
and  simpler  for  her  life  and  example,  and  with 
a  sure  and  certain  hope  of  reunion.     Her  spirit 


The  Old  Family  Nurse         123 

will  find  ours  out,  if  she  has  to  journey  to  meet 
us;  and  I  feel  of  her  something  of  what  John 
Wesley  said  of  his  friend  Whitefield,  when  he 
J) reached  what  seemed  to  be  erroneous  doctrine, 
and  some  poor,  carping  disciple  said  to  Wesley, 
hoping  for  a  grim  answer :  "  Do  you  think,  sir, 
that  when  we  get  to  heaven  we  shall  see  Mr. 
Whitefield?  "  "  I  doubt,  sir,"  said  the  old  evan- 
gelist,  "  for  he  will  be  so  near  the  throne,  and 
we  so  far  off,  that  we  shall  scarce  get  sight  of 
him." 


THE  ANGLICAN  CLERGY 

It  is  always,  I  think,  amusing  to  be  criticised  as 
one  of  a  class.  When  I  read  the  other  day,  in 
a  speech  about  the  House  of  Lords — I  forget 
whose,  but  I  rather  think  it  was  one  of  Mr. 
Winston  ChurchilFs  conciliatory  orations — ^that 
the  only  people  who  took  an  interest  in  the  con- 
stitutional aspect  of  the  question  were  uni- 
versity dons  and  the  sort  of  people  who  read 
the  Spectator,  I  was  not  displeased,  because 
I  knew  that,  though  I  was  a  don,  I  was  singularly 
free  from  all  the  prejudices  and  foibles  of  the 
class.  So  I  am  not  afraid  of  writing  about  the 
clergyman  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  layman, 
because  I  am  sure  that  no  one  will  feel  person- 
ally aggrieved.  It  is  not  either  as  though  I  had 
anything  at  all  satirical  or  wounding  to  say.  I 
was  brought  up  among  the  clergy,  and  I  lived 
for  a  considerable  part  of  my  life  in  close  touch 
with  ecclesiastical  circles.  Some  of  my  best  and 
dearest  friends  are  clergymen ;  and  I  think  I  may 
fairly  claim  to  have  known  a  great  number  of 
clergy  and  a  great  variety  of  clergy.  As  a  school- 
master and  as  a  don  I  lived  mainly  among  lay- 
124 


The  Anglican  Clergy  125 

men;  but  a  man  is  not  easily  detaclied  from  his 
class,  and  to  this  day  my  heart,  like  Words- 
worth's, rather  leaps  up  when  I  behold  a  clergy- 
man. I  like  what  I  may  call  clerical  shop ;  I  enjoy 
talk  about  clerical  costume,  church  music  and 
furniture,  ecclesiastical  politics  and  promotions.  I 
am  a  connoisseur  of  clerical  humour,  which  is 
often  very  good  of  its  kind — a  mild,  dry  beverage, 
with  a  delicate  ethical  flavour,  and  with  a  lam- 
bent irony  that  plays  innocuously  about  arch- 
deacons and  rural  deans.  But  it  requires,  as  Mr, 
Shorthouse  once  wrote  about  the  High  Anglican 
position,  an  initiation  to  comprehend ;  and  one 
must  be  bred  up  in  it  to  realise  its  peculiar  and 
pleasant  characteristics. 

I  am  often  surprised  at  the  view  which  what 
I  may  call  men  of  the  world  are  apt  to  take 
about  our  clergy.  They  look  upon  them  as  rather 
feminine,  narrow-minded,  officious  men,  with  poky 
interests  and  fussy  tendencies.  Some  go  further, 
and  allow  themselves  to  think  and  speak  of  the 
clergy  as  men  with  whom  insincerity  has  become 
a  second  nature,  as  people  who  are  in  the  un- 
happy position  of  having  to  preach  and  accept 
doctrines  and  modes  of  thought  in  which  they 
do  not  really  believe.  The  other  day  I  had  occa- 
sion to  remonstrate  with  an  academical  friend 
who  talked  in  this  vein.  T  was  compelled  at  last 
to  say  that  the  only  possible  explanation  of  his 
talk  was  that  he  simply  did  not  know  any  of 
the  clergy  well  enough  to  form  an  opinion.    The 


126  Along  the  Road 

outside  opinion  of  a  class  is  almost  always  a 
belated  one,  and  is  generally  true  of  the  worst 
specimens  of  the  class  as  it  was  about  forty  years 
before;  and  it  is  true  to  say  that  a  very  great 
change  has  passed  over  the  three  professional 
classes  with  which  I  am  best  acquainted — clergy, 
schoolmasters,  and  dons.  The  fact  is  that  they 
have  all  three  become  very  much  less  professional 
than  they  were.  The  clergy  have  no  desire  to 
take  a  superior  line  or  to  improve  the  occasion, 
the  don  does  not  in  the  least  desire  to  deride  the 
ignorance  of  others,  nor  does  the  schoolmaster 
thirst  to  impart  elementary  information.  The 
clergy  have  become  a  part  of  the  national  life 
in  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years  to  a  marked 
extent.  In  novels,  in  comic  papers,  on  the  stage, 
a  certain  amount  of  mild  fun  is  poked  at  them, 
bat  the  frequency  of  their  appearance  is  a  very 
clear  proof  that  they  are  a  real  social  factor. 
The  fact  is  that  the  sense  of  responsibility  has 
enormously  increased  among  the  clergy,  and  with 
it  their  influence  and  status.  I  believe  that  they 
wield  great  and  increasing  power,  and  do  so  with 
wonderful  modesty  and  moderation.  There  are 
constant  complaints  about  the  dearth  of  clergy. 
That  is  the  inevitable  result  of  a  very  real  and 
deep  improvement  in  the  standard  of  character 
and  the  sense  of  vocation.  I  was  constantly  sur- 
prised when  I  was  a  master  at  Eton  by  the  way 
in  which  parents  used  to  express  a  hope  and  a 
desire  that  their  sons  might  take  orders;  but  a 


The  Anglican  Clergy  127 

boy  was  never  briskly  consigued,  so  to  speak,  to 
the  clerical  profession ;  it  was  always  understood 
that  no  sort  of  pressure  was  to  be  applied. 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  organisation  of  clerical 
training,  which  in  the  last  forty  years  has  turned 
what  was  often  a  very  amateurish  business  into 
a  real  and  sensible  si)ecialism.  There  is  no  sort 
of  doubt  that  the  clergy  are  infinitely  better 
equipped  for  their  work  than  they  were. 

Now  the  result  of  all  this  is  that  when  one 
encounters,  say  as  a  stranger  in  a  strange  place, 
a  clergyman,  what  does  one  expect  to  find?  I 
will  say  frankly  what  I  expect  to  find,  and  gen- 
erally do  find.  I  find  first  a  man  of  real  courtesy, 
kindness,  and  consideration,  surely  the  best  note 
of  the  pastor.  I  want  to  emphasise  this  point 
because  it  is  true  and  important.  I  am  aston- 
ished at  the  unfailing  courtesy  of  the  clergy 
whenever  and  in  whatever  capacity  one  meets 
them.  They  have  not  a  monopoly  of  this,  of 
course;  but  while  the  ordinary  English  layman 
is  a  pleasant,  bluff,  sensible  person,  he  often  gives 
you  the  feeling  of  a  certain  aloofness,  and  shows 
that  he  is  not  particularly  interested  in  your 
affairs.  But  the  kindness  of  the  clergy  is  a  real 
and  eager  kindness,  a  desire  to  be  personally 
pleasant  and  useful  and  companionable;  it  is  not 
an  obtrusive  courtesy  or  a  desire  for  mutual 
recognition;  it  is  the  benevolence  of  a  man  who 
thinks  it  is  his  business  to  help  and  serve,  and 
who  does  it  with  all  his  heart.     The  exceptions 


128  Along  the  Road 

to  this  are  so  rare  as  to  be  negligible;  and  I 
think  that  it  is  perhaps  the  most  distinguishing 
characteristic  of  the  clergy.  No  matter  how  petty 
or  tiresome  one's  requisitions  may  be,  one  finds 
a  clergyman  always  ready  and  anxious  to  do 
whatever  he  can.  And  I  think  they  add  to  this 
another  high  quality,  and  that  is  the  virtue  of 
common  sense.  I  am  going  to  make  one  excep- 
tion to  this  later  on,  but  as  a  rule  I  am  struck 
with  the  shrewd  and  tolerant  judgment  they  dis- 
play of  men  and  things,  and  the  real  knowledge 
that  many  of  them  have  of  human  nature.  This 
is  a  thing  which  can  only  come  by  experience, 
and  it  is  in  itself  a  strong  testimony  to  their  quiet 
and  laborious  work  among  human  beings.  And 
further,  I  am  sure  that  they  are  distinguished, 
as  a  rule,  by  what  I  can  only  call  conspicuous 
good  breeding.  They  get  this  from  having  to  mix 
on  intimate  terms  with  all  sorts  of  people,  high 
and  low;  and  our  clergy  are  accordingly  both 
well-mannered,  in  the  best  sense,  and  unaffected. 
They  do  not  vary  their  manner  with  reference 
to  social  position ;  they  are  respectful,  genial,  and 
simple  with  all  alike.  Of  course,  there  are  in- 
dividuals who  may  fail  in  these  qualities.  But 
I  am  sure  that  any  one  who  has  seen  a  large 
variety  of  parsons  will  agree  with  me  that  what 
I  have  said  is  in  no  way  excessive. 

Now,  having  said  thus  much  in  grateful  and 
sincere  recognition  of  the  merits  of  our  clergy, 
may  I  add  a  few  small  criticisms?    I  think  that 


The  Anglican  Clergy  129 

the  clergy  do  not  do  themselves  full  justice  in 
two  points.  The  first  point  is  a  complicated  and 
flifticult  one;  it  is  that  they  display  a  certain 
timidity  of  mind  in  the  discussion  of  religious 
questions.  There  is  no  doubt  that  religious 
oi»inion  among  the  laity,  at  all  events,  is  advanc- 
ing very  rapidly  upon  more  or  less  liberal  lines. 
Tliere  is  an  amusing  story  which  may  illustrate 
my  point.  It  is  said  that  when  a  certain  Bible 
dictionary  was  being  compiled,  the  editor  asked 
a  prominent  ecclesiastic  for  an  article  on  the 
Deluge.  It  was  rather  late  in  arriving,  and  when 
it  came  the  editor  found  that  it  was  too  advanced 
and  heterodox  for  his  purpose.  So  to  gain  time 
he  put  under  the  word  "  Deluge "  the  reference 
**  see  Flood,"  and  hastily  requisitioned  another 
article  from  another  contributor.  But  when  that 
arrived,  it  seemed  also  too  liberal  in  its  tend- 
encies ;  so  he  put  "  Flood,  see  Noah,"  and  took 
time  to  consider.  But  when  he  reached  "Noah"  he 
found  that  public  opinion  had  changed,  and  that 
the  original  article  on  the  Deluge  was  now  ortho- 
dox enough,  and  inserted  it  accordingly. 

Tlie  clergy  are  so  anxious — and,  indeed,  it  is 
their  business-^to  conciliate  all  shades  of  opin- 
ion, and  so  desirous  not  to  offend  the  most 
scrupulous  of  consciences,  that  they  give  the  im- 
pression, I  often  think,  of  being  more  retrograde 
than  they  are.  I  do  not  know  how  this  difficult^' 
is  to  be  met;  I  suppose  it  will  cure  itself.  But 
the  result  is  that,  instead  of  the  clergy  taking 


130  Along  the  Road 

the  lead  in  religious  thought,  and  giving  the  kind 
of  guidance  that  thinking  people  require,  they 
frighten  people  into  silence  by  an  appearance  of 
antiquated  reserve  on  vexed  questions.  I  am  not 
speaking  about  the  essential  and  fundamental 
doctrines  of  Christianity,  but  upon  the  large 
fringe  of  accessory  points  which  surrounds  the 
central  truths ;  and  thus  a  thoughtful  layman,  in- 
stead of  feeling  that  a  clergyman  is  the  right  per- 
son with  whom  he  can  discuss  religious  problems, 
thinks  of  him  as  a  person  who  is  easily  shocked, 
as  a  man  who  cannot  face  the  development  of 
Christian  thought. 

And  then,  too,  I  am  sure  that  the  clergy  lose 
ground  b}^  being  too  much  in  earnest  about  what 
a  rude  layman  would  call  millinery.  The  de- 
velopment of  Church  ceremonial  and  tradition  is 
in  its  way  a  beautiful  and  attractive  thing,  but 
if  it  is  too  prominent  in  a  clergyman's  mind,  it 
develops  a  sort  of  impatience  in  the  lay  mind. 
It  is  rather  easy  for  a  clergyman  to  deceive  him- 
self in  the  matter ;  for  there  are  in  every  congre- 
gation a  certain  number  of  people  whose  interest 
in  such  things  is  sincere  and  genuine;  but  they 
are  not  always  the  most  robust  of  the  flock;  and 
if  a  clergyman  allows  himself  to  pay  undue  at- 
tention to  these  matters,  he  is  in  danger  of  for- 
feiting masculine  allegiance.  Most  people  like 
the  service  of  the  sanctuary  to  be  solemn  and 
dignified;  but  the  ordinary  Englishman  does  not 
care  for  what  is  symbolical — my  father  used  to 


The  Anglican  Clergy  131 

say  that  even  the  Baptismal  Service  was  too 
dramatic  for  a  certain  type  of  British  mind;  and 
if  a  clergyman  allows  his  interest  in  such  mat- 
ters to  become  too  pronounced,  he  will  have  to 
part  company  with  what  is  perhaps  the  most 
vigorous  section  of  his  flock.  And  in  this  con- 
nection may  I  mention  a  small  point  which  T 
think  is  sincerely  to  be  deplored,  and  that  is  the 
unhappy  intonation,  which  is  supposed  to  be  de- 
votional, but  which  is  often  both  slovenly  and 
pietistic,  which  is  too  common  in  our  churches, 
especially  in  the  reading  of  Scripture.  No  one 
desires  reading  to  be  melodramatic;  but  I  declare 
that  I  heard  the  other  day  one  of  the  most  fla- 
grant and  brutal  passages  of  the  Old  Testament, 
the  death  of  Jezebel,  which  is  a  piece  of  desperate 
and  hideous  tragedj',  read  in  church  as  though  it 
were  the  amiable  musings  of  some  contemplative 
hermit.  This  does  give  a  layman  a  sense  of  un- 
reality and  absurdity  combined;  and  instruction 
in  restrained  dramatic  elocution  should  be  a  part 
of  every  theological  course. 

I  do  not  say  these  things  in  at  all  a  captious 
or  ungracious  spirit.  I  think  that  they  are  points 
deserving  of  serious  consideration.  I  will  only 
repeat  what  I  believe  to  be  the  simple  truth,  that 
we  have  in  the  Anglican  Church  a  body  of  men 
who  in  social  standing,  devotion,  and  true  pas- 
toral virtue  are  incomparably  higher  and  finer 
than  the  clergy  of  any  other  communion.  They 
have  won,  under  severe  criticism  and  even  disdain 


132  Along  the  Road 

— the  shadow  of  the  old  dreary  and  sleepy  Eras- 
tian  times — the  respect  and  affection  and  trust 
of  their  countrymen.  For  a  paltry  wage,  in  a 
career  which  gives  but  small  opportunity  to 
worldly  ambition,  they  live  uprightly  and  purely 
and  beneficently ;  and  their  children — I  say  this 
from  personal  experience  of  them  at  school  and 
college — are  some  of  the  wholesomest  and  sim- 
plest specimens  of  English  growth.  I  look  with 
dread  upon  any  legislation  which  would  in  any 
way  imperil  the  energy  and  efficiency  of  a  class 
whose  services  and  labours  are  of  incalculable 
benefit  to  the  nation. 


COMPULSORY  GREEK 

i'liEBK  has  been  another  controversy  in  the  Times 
on  the  subject  of  Compulsory  Greek.  The  de- 
fence has  been  mainly  conducted  by  Professor 
Murray,  who  has  perhaps  done  as  much  to  inter- 
I)ret  the  Greek  spirit  as  any  other  living  Briton. 
l*rofessor  Turner,  the  great  astronomer,  leads  the 
attack,  and  Sir  Edwin  Ray  Lankester,  the  emi- 
nent scientist,  has  dealt  some  shrewd  blows.  The 
gist  of  the  controversy  is  this:  that  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  alone  of  our  universities,  make  it 
practically  impossible  for  any  one  to  enter  with- 
out a  modicum  of  Greek.  It  is  not  seriously 
contended  that  this  amount  of  Greek  does  the 
possessor  of  it  any  particular  good;  it  certainly 
is  not  enough  to  enable  him  to  have  any  very 
intimate  |>erception  of  Greek  literature  and  Greek 
thought.  One  hears  of  the  most  grotesque  de- 
vices being  resorted  to  in  order  to  creep  through 
the  fence.  The  other  day  a  young  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  a  promising  engineer,  wishing  to  enter 
at  Cambridge,  and  knowing  no  Greek,  learned 
by  heart  the  English  translation  of  a  Greek  play, 
trusting  to  knowing  just  enough  of  the  language 

133 


134  Along  the  Road 

to  be  able  in  the  examinatioD  to  write  down  the 
correct  passage.  No  one  can  pretend  that  such 
a  process  is  anything  but  an  irritating  interrup- 
tion to  his  real  work.  But  the  grounds  on  which 
this  regulation  is  defended  are  the  following.  It 
is  alleged  that  if  Greek  is  not  kept  compulsory 
at  some  universities,  the  study  of  it  will  perish, 
because  there  will  not  be  enough  boys  learning 
it  at  smaller  schools  to  have  a  Greek  master; 
and  it  is  further  alleged  that  universities  which 
desire  that  their  studies  should  be,  in  a  general 
way,  of  a  literary  type,  should  do  all  they  can 
to  preserve  the  study  of  what  is  undoubtedly  the 
finest  flower  of  culture  in  the  world;  and  the 
defenders  of  Greek  go  on  to  urge  that  if  students 
of  science  are  allowed  to  specialise  entirely  in 
science,  their  mind  loses  its  intellectual  balance, 
and  becomes  narrow  and  one-sided. 

I  am  myself  wholly  of  opinion  that  it  would 
be  a  great  misfortune  if  the  study  of  Greek  were 
abandoned;  and  I  think  it  is  perfectly  true  that 
s])ecialism  in  science  is  a  dangerous  thing;  it  is 
imi)ortant,  on  many  grounds,  that  men  of  science 
should  possess  some  literary  culture;  but  I  am 
equally  sure  that  the  retention  of  compulsory 
Greek  under  present  conditions  is  a  hindrance 
rather  than  a  help  to  the  advanced  study  of  the 
language ;  while  for  scientific  students  compulsory 
Greek  not  only  does  not  give  literary  culture, 
but  actually  consumes  the  time  which  might  be 
given  to  it,  because  Greek,  learnt  as  it  is,  does 


Compulsory  Greek  13S 

not  present  itself  to  the  average  boyish  mind  as 
literature  at  all. 

Then  there  comes  the  case  of  the  ordinary  pass- 
man. Now  here,  I  think,  it  is  a  great  misfortune 
that  the  defence  of  Greek  is  as  a  rule  conducted 
by  literary  giants,  so  to  si>eak ;  men  to  whom 
Greek  never  presented  any  intellectual  difficulty, 
and  to  whom  the  beauty  of  Greek  literature  ap- 
pealed from  the  very  first.  These  defenders  of 
Greek  are  perfectly  sincere;  they  cannot  under- 
stand how  anything  which  seems  to  them  so  per- 
fectly and  entirely  majestic  and  beautiful  as 
Greek  literature  should  not  have  a  beneficial 
effect  upon  the  minds  of  those  who  have  to 
learn  it. 

Personally,  I  approach  the  subject  from  a  dif- 
ferent point  of  view.  As  an  old  schoolmaster  I 
taught,  first  and  last,  at  Eton,  about  two  thou- 
sinid  boys,  of  all  ages  and  attainments.  And  I 
unhesitatingly  declare  that  the  number  of  boys 
to  whom  Greek  appealed  as  literature  was  a  very 
small  percentage  indeed.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
the  hours  devoted  to  classics — ^by  far  the  larger 
share  of  the  hours  of  work — were  not  only  wasted 
hours,  which  might  have  been  given  to  stimu- 
lating and  intelligible  work,  but  worse  than 
wasted,  because  they  taught  boys  to  dislike  and 
to  despise  intellectual  pursuits  altogether.  The 
average  boy  at  the  end  of  an  elaborate  classical 
education  is  often  in  the  miserable  i)osition  of 
knowing  no  classics,  and  not  having  had  the  time 


136  Along  the  Road 

to  learn  anything  else.  Nowadays,  when  com- 
petition is  so  severe,  an  education  which  does 
not  put  a  boy  in  a  position  to  earn  his  living  is 
not  only  a  wasted  education — it  is  a  fraud !  And 
too  many  boys  find  themselves  stranded  on  this 
account.  A  boy  who  knows  French  and  Ger- 
man, can  calculate  correctly,  can  express  himself 
in  English,  and  can  write  a  good  hand,  is  in 
a  position  to  earn  his  living;  there  is  plenty  of 
time  to  teach  him  these  things,  and  to  give  him, 
as  well,  some  elementary  science,  some  history 
and  geography,  and  some  sound  religious  teach- 
ing. But  there  is  not  time  for  all  these  things 
and  for  the  classics  as  well.  Moreover,  a  boy 
educated  on  modern  lines  would  be  capable  of 
understanding  what  is  going  on  in  the  world; 
and  it  is  ridiculous  to  say  that  his  intellectual 
interests  could  not  be  stimulated  by  the  above 
programme.  What  does  happen  is  that  his  in- 
tellectual interests  are  not  stimulated  by  classics, 
and  he  is  often  rendered  inefficient  as  well. 

Moreover,  such  a  boy  ought  not  to  be  excluded 
from  Oxford  or  Cambridge  on  the  grounds  of  an 
ignorance  of  classics.  There  are  many  reasons 
— social  reasons,  reasons  of  tradition  and  associa- 
tion— why  parents  who  can  afford  it  should  send 
boys  to  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  The  two  Univer- 
sities have  a  special  tone  of  their  own,  and  a 
very  fine  tone.  What  I  feel  that  the  Universities 
ought  to  do  is  to  offer  as  wide  a  choice  as  pos- 
sible of  alternative  subjects,  encourage  all  their 


Compulsory  Greek  137 

men  to  take  up  a  congenial  subject,  and  raise  the 
standard  of  performance  in  these  subjects.  At 
present  it  is  confessed  that  the  intellectual  stand- 
ard demanded  of  the  passmen  is  deplorably  low; 
and  why  all  this  waste  of  power,  this  manufacture 
of  inefficiency  should  be  permitted,  just  because 
tlie  abolition  of  compulsory  Greek  might  possibly 
endanger  the  interests  of  one  special  subject,  I 
cannot  conceive.  It  seems  to  be  a  monopoly  and 
a  tyranny  which  ought  to  be  resolutely  resisted. 

The  other  day  an  official  high  in  the  Civil 
Service  said  to  me  that  he  had  a  number  of 
appointments  to  make.  "  I  wanted,"  he  said,  "  to 
securfe  public  school  and  university  men  if  I 
could,  because  the  type  is  such  a  good  one  in 
every  w^ay,  and  I  made  special  efforts  to  secure 
them.  I  interviewed  a  large  number  of  candi- 
dates; the  men  of  the  kind  I  wanted  were  in 
general  ways  the  best ;  but  they  simply  were  use- 
less for  my  purpose.  They  could  not,  many  of 
them,  write  a  respectable  hand;  they  could  not 
express  themselves  in  English,  they  could  not 
calculate  accurately,  they  knew  no  French  and 
German,  and  they  did  not  even  know  their 
classics."  That  seems  to  me  a  very  deplorable 
indictment,  but  it  is  true.  And  the  pity  of  it 
is  that  the  machinery  for  producing  good  results 
is  all  there,  but  it  is  working  on  the  wrong  lines. 

The  defenders  of  compulsory  Greek  seem  un- 
aware how  much  conditions  have  altered  in  the 
last  fifty  years.     The  world  has  passed  through 


138  Along  the  Road 

a  period  of  immense  expansion.  An  attempt  has 
been  made  to  meet  this  at  schools  by  introducing 
new  studies,  but  the  effect  of  them  has  been 
nullified  by  trying  to  keep  the  classics  as  well. 
Tt  has  become  a  farce,  and  a  dangerous  farce; 
and  it  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  continue. 

I  am  glad  to  see  that  the  pressure  of  public 
opinion  is  producing  an  effect.  We  have  lately 
at  Cambridge  taken  a  step  which  reduces  our 
position  to  an  absurdity.  We  demand  Greek  for 
entrance  to  the  University,  but  we  do  not  require 
that  a  man  shall  do  any  more  Greek  when  he  has 
once  entered.  That,  is  to  say,  we  acquiesce  in  a 
boy^s  time  being  wasted  at  school  in  learning  a 
subject  which  we  do  not  insist  on  his  continuing 
at  the  University.  What  then  becomes  of  our 
ideal  of  culture,  and  of  the  necessity  of  putting 
men  under  the  influence  of  Greek  thought?  Of 
course  it  is  very  difficult  to  break  down  a  system 
which  has  been  long  in  use;  there  is  a  conserva- 
tive tendency  in  academical  circles,  and  there  are 
vested  interests  as  well.  But  it  is  not  good  citi- 
zenship to  let  this  block  the  way  to  a  great  and 
desirable  reform. 

I  have  often  been  amused  in  the  course  of  the 
controversy  to  recall  the  three  reasons,  attributed 
I  think  to  Dean  Gaisford  of  Christ  Church,  for 
the  study  of  Greek.  The  Dean  is  supposed  to 
have  said  that  the  first  reason  was  that  a  know- 
ledge of  Greek  gave  a  man  a  proper  degree  of 
contempt  for  men  of  lesser  acquirements.     That 


Compulsory  Greek  139 

does  not  seem  to  me  to  ])e  a  spirit  which  it  is 
desirable  to  cultivate,  and  in  any  case  the  pass- 
man's store  of  Greek  is  hardly  an  adequate  basis 
for  any  form  of  intellectual  pride.  The  second 
reason  was  that  it  enabled  a  man  to  study  the 
words  of  our  Saviour  in  the  original  tongue.  I 
suppose  that  it  is  now  generally  admitted  that 
our  Lord  probably  spoke  Aramaic,  but  in  any 
case  a  man  who  was  not  impressed  by  the  teach- 
ing of  the  Gospel  in  the  English  version  could 
hardly  be  supposed  to  derive  much  additional 
benefit  from  studying  the  Greek  Testament; 
though,  of  course,  in  any  such  reform  as  I  have 
indicated,  the  interests  of  the  theological  faculty 
would  be  carefully  safeguarded. 

The  third  reason,  and  the  most  conclusive,  was 
that  it  led  to  situations  of  emolument ;  so  it  does, 
no  doubt,  for  the  few  who  have  the  privilege  of 
continuing  to  teach  Greek.  But  for  the  ordinary 
man  I  would  affirm  that  so  far  from  compulsory 
Greek  leading  him  to  situations  of  emolument,  it 
is  the  principal  factor  in  our  English  education 
which  leaves  him  at  the  threshold  of  life  without 
a  prospect  of  any  situation  at  alL 


GAMBLING 

I  LISTENED  the  other  day  to  an  earnest  and  elo- 
quent sermon  against  gambling  and  betting, 
which  left  an  unsatisfactory  impression  on  my 
mind.  No  one,  of  course,  has  any  doubt  that 
gambling  is  responsible  for  a  great  deal  of  crime 
and  misery,  and  that  it  is  in  a  large  number  of 
cases  an  entirely  reprehensible  and  pernicious 
practice.  But  the  difficulty  about  it  is  that  it 
seems  impossible  to  lay  down  absolutely  cogent 
and  conclusive  moral  reasons  against  it.  The 
same  is  not  the  case  with  things  like  theft  or 
cruelty,  which"  can  be  condemned  root  and  branch. 
No  amount  of  sophistical  argument  could  justify 
the  theft  of  a  threepenny-bit,  or  deliberate  cruelty 
to  the  smallest  and  humblest  of  insects.  But  it 
would  take  a  very  stringent  moralist  to  condemn 
a  bet  of  sixpence  between  two  millionaires  as  to 
the  correctness  of  a  disputed  date,  and  few  people 
would  be  found  to  condemn  on  moral  grounds 
the  playing  of  a  rubber  of  whist  by  well-to-do 
people  for  penny  points.  It  seems  to  be  a  ques- 
tion of  degree  and  expediency,  and  possibly  of 
example.     The  preacher  said  that  one  of  the  rea- 

140 


Gambling  141 

sons  against  betting  was  that  it  was  not  honest 
to  take  money  that  one  had  not  earned.  But 
this  plea  cannot  be  for  an  instant  sustained,  be- 
cause it  would  do  away  with  the  possibility  of 
accepting  all  gifts  or  legacies,  or  the  increment 
of  a  fortunate  investment;  and  are  there  any 
moralists  so  strict  as  to  think  themselves  bound, 
if  a  perfectly  bona  fide  investment  turns  out 
well,  to  pay  the  proceeds  to  the  State,  or  to  the 
company,  or  to  devote  it  all  to  charitable  uses? 
Moreover,  what  becomes  of  such  a  thing  as  a 
life-insurance?  There  is  nothing  which  is  con- 
sidered to  be  more  virtuous  or  prudent  or  well- 
regulated  than  for  a  young  man  to  insure  his 
life.  Yet  the  transaction  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  bet.  If  you  insure  your  life,  you  are  bet- 
ting on  your  death,  while  the  insurance  company 
is  betting  on  your  life.  If  you  die  young,  your 
wife  and  children  have  the  benefit  of  a  sum  of 
money  which  has  certainly  not  been  earned,  and 
w^hich  is  paid  by  your  fellow-insured  who  do  not 
die. 

If  a  man  who  can  afford  it  bets,  and  does  not 
bet  beyond  his  means,  on  the  ground  that  it 
amuses  him,  it  is  very  difficult  to  say  where  the 
moral  guilt  comes  in.  No  one  could  say  that  all 
money  spent  on  amusement  is  misapplied.  No 
one  would  say  that  it  was  morally  wrong  to  keep 
a  yacht,  or  to  take  a  shooting,  if  you  have  the 
money  to  pay  for  it,  and  if  you  think  the  amuse- 
ment worth  the  outlay.     It  is  all,  in  a  sense,  a 


142  Along  the  Road 

waste  of  money,  but  it  is  the  purest  socialism, 
and  socialism  of  an  advanced  tj^pe,  to  say  that  no 
one  has  a  right  to  spend  more  than  he  requires  for 
the  bare  necessaries  of  life. 

The  mere  fact  that  money  should  change  hands 
is  not  in  itself  reprehensible,  if  both  parties  tc 
the  arrangement  concur  in  the  process.  01 
course,  it  is  wrong  if  you  lose  money  that  you 
cannot  pay,  or  money  which  ought  to  be  devoted 
to  reasonable  thrift,  or  to  the  education  of  child 
ren ;  but  this  would  apply  to  innumerable  things, 
not  in  themselves  wrong,  but  which  become  wrons 
simply  by  the  force  of  circumstances.  I  knew  a 
worthy  little  tradesman  once  who  had  a  passion 
for  buying  books.  The  desire  in  itself  was  in 
nocent  enough,  but  he  ruined  himself  and  reduced 
his  family  to  beggary  by  indulging  his  hobby 
and  it  is  difficult  to  see  that  he  was  less  culp 
able  than  if  he  had  brought  about  the  same 
result  by  betting. 

Then  the  preacher  said  that  all  gambling 
vitiated  and  weakened  the  moral  fibre;  but  this 
again  is  not  the  case.  It  is  perfectly  true  o1 
people  who  succumb  to  the  passion  for  gambling 
but  I  have  known  many  worthy  men  who  have 
played  whist  for  small  points  two  or  three  times 
a  week  for  the  greater  part  of  their  lives,  who  hav( 
certainly  exhibited  no  traces  whatever  of  mora 
deterioration.  I  read,  indeed,  in  a  book  the  othei 
day  an  eloquent  plea  put  in  the  mouth  of  a  bet 
ting  agent  to  the  effect  that  one  ought  not  t< 


Gambling  143 

deny  to  poor  people  the  only  method  they  have 
of  indulging  the  pleasures  of  imagination  and 
bo[)eI  This,  I  think,  is  an  entirely  sophistical 
plea — there  are  few  vices  which  one  could  not 
defend  upon  similar  grounds;  and  it  may  be  urged 
as  a  purely  practical  consideration,  that  healthy 
and  well-balanced  natures  do  not  need  that  form 
of  amusement,  and  that  if  a  nature  is  not  healthy 
and  well-balanced,  it  is  a  dangerous  pastime  at 
best. 

There  is  one  perfectly  reasonable  argument 
which  may  be  urged  against  the  whole  practice, 
and  this  is  the  enormous  waste  involved.  If  the 
end  of  all  betting  and  gambling  were  that  certain 
foolish  persons  had  a  little  more  money  than  they 
had  earned,  and  certain  other  foolish  persons  a 
little  less,  it  would  not  be  so  wasteful.  But  this 
is  not  the  case.  Out  of  the  money  that  changes 
hands,  a  large  class  of  persons — betting  and  gam- 
bling agents  of  all  descriptions — are  supported. 
(Jranted  that  the  whole  system  is  defensible  on 
moral  grounds,  no  doubt  many  of  these  people 
earn  their  money  honestly  and  laboriously;  but 
the  class  is  an  unnecessary  one,  to  say  the  least. 
They  produce  nothing,  they  are  supported  at  the 
expense  of  the  community,  and  they  live  on  money 
which  many  of  the  losers  cannot  spare. 

And  then  there  comes  in  the  fact,  which  is  the 
one  strong  and  absolute  argument  against  the 
whole  thing:  that  betting  and  gambling  are,  as  I 
have  said,   undoubtedly   responsible  for  an   im- 


144  Along  the  Road 

meuse  amount  of  wretchedness  and  privation,  and 
even  of  crime.  The  passion  for  gambling  is  a 
vice  which  lays  an  irresistible  grip  upon  people, 
and  too  often  upon  people  who  begin  by  thinking 
that  it  is  in  their  power  to  stop  whenever  they 
choose.  That,  I  think,  is  th,e  consideration  which 
ought  to  be  invariably  urged  in  the  matter :  that 
no  one  can  possibly  tell,  until  he  has  tried, 
whether  he  may  not  be  liable  to  the  contagion; 
and  that  if  he  once  contracts  it,  it  is  well-nigh 
impossible  to  cure;  and,  therefore,  it  is  a  practice 
which  all  sensible  and  conscientious  people  who 
have  the  welfare  of  society  at  heart  should  set 
their  faces  against,  and  give  no  encouragement 
to,  lest  they  cause  their  brethren  to  offend.  It 
is  not  a  practice  against  which,  as  I  have  said^ 
obvious  and  conclusive  moral  reasons  can  be 
urged,  and  it  damages  the  cause  of  those  who 
disapprove  of  gambling  to  fulminate  against  it 
as  though  it  were  an  utterly  reprehensible  and 
abominable  thing.  Such  a  course  savours  of 
fanaticism,  and  sets  moderate  people  against  a 
good  cause.  But  the  evil  is  so  insidious,  so  far- 
reaching,  so  horribly  destructive  in  its  develop- 
ments, that  it  must  be  met  sensibly  and  tranquilly. 
It  may  be  the  only  cure  for  excess  that  all 
moderate  people  should  abstain;  and  in  any  case 
gambling  is  not  a  practice  that  can  be  included 
among  normal,  natural,  and  innocent  pleasures. 
The  State,  by  stopping  lotteries  and  making  bet- 
ting with  all  who  are  under  age  a  criminal  offence. 


Gambling  145 

lias  shown  a  sense  of  responsibility  in  the  matter. 
Further  than  this  it  is  doubtful  whether,  in  these 
democratic  days,  it  would  be  possible  to  go,  for 
there  is  little  doubt  that  one  of  the  attractions 
of  public  athletic  contests  is  the  gambling  that 
accompanies  them;  and  whether  a  nation  which 
indulges  so  largely  as  Englishmen  do  indulge  in 
betting  would  consent  to  tie  their  hands  in  the 
matter  is  questionable.  A  serious  politician  with 
whom  I  was  discussing  the  subject  the  other  day 
said  that,  to  his  mind,  one  of  the  strong  reasons 
for  granting  female  suffrage  was  that  he  believed 
that  far  more  stringent  laws  on  the  subject  of 
gambling  would  result,  because  he  said  that 
women  did  not  indulge  in  gambling,  and  were 
the  part  of  the  community  that  suffered  most  in 
consequence  of  it.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should 
go  as  far  as  this;  and  it  would,  of  course,  be  a 
far  better  solution  if  the  evil  could  be  cured  by 
voluntary  abstention  rather  than  by  legislation. 

The  preacher  maintained  that  the  nation  at  the 
present  time  showed  grave  signs  of  decadence  and 
moral  deterioration.  That,  I  believe,  to  be  wholly 
untrue.  I  think  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that,  as  a  nation,  we  are  more  healthy,  more 
vigorous,  more  sensible  by  far  than  we  were  a 
century  ago.  T  do  not  believe  that  the  increase 
of  gambling  is  a  sign  of  decadence,  but  a  proof 
that  the  working-classes  have  more  money  and 
leisure  than  they  used  to  have.  One  wishes,  of 
course,  that  it  did  not  manifest  itself  in  that 


146;  Along  the  Road 

particular  way;  but  I  am  glad,  on  general 
grounds,  that  the  democracy  should  realise  that 
it  has  the  right  and  the  time  to  be  amused.  In 
any  case,  gambling  cannot  be  suppressed  by  lec- 
turing or  scolding,  or  the  expression  of  pious 
horror.  That  is  only  exorcising  the  evil  spirit, 
and  leaving  its  dwelling-place  empty  and  gar- 
nished. The  only  way  is  to  encourage  a  taste 
for  better  and  more  innocent  pleasures,  and  thus 
the  evil  would  insensibly  disappear. 


HYMNS 

I  HAVE  been  reading  the  new  Oxford  Hymn-book, 
with  more  interest,  it  mnst  be  confessed,  than 
satisfaction.  The  principle  of  the  book  has  been 
to  restore  as  far  as  possible  the  original  read- 
ings. T  say  "as  far  as  possible "  becanse  I  have 
not  tested  more  than  a  certain  number  of  in- 
stances, but  in  all  these  cases  the  original  has 
been  restored. 

Now  this  is  a  theory  which  it  is  very  easy  to 
justify  in  principle,  but  not  so  easy  to  carry  out 
in  practice.  It  may  be  asked,  by  those  who  de- 
fend the  restoration  of  the  original  text,  what 
right  any  one  has  to  alter,  without  the  express 
leave  of  the  writer,  the  words  of  his  hymns,  and 
to  print  those  hymns  with  the  names  of  the 
authors  appended,  as  their  work,  when  in  many 
cases  the  alterations  are  numerous  and  consider- 
able. No  one,  it  may  be  urged,  would  venture 
to  treat  any  other  form  of  literature  in  this 
fashion.  Of  course  that  argument  at  first  sight 
appears  to  be  unanswerable.  But  a  good  many 
considerations  may  be  brought  forward  on  the 
other  side.     If  hymns   were   merely  a  form   of 

147 


148  Along  the  Road 

poetry,  and  if  a  hymn-book  were  only  a  sacred 
anthology  for  private  reading,  alterations  are 
certainly  not  justified.  But  a  hymn-book  is  a 
great  deal  more  than  that.  It  is  a  service-book; 
that  is  to  say  that,  in  the  first  place,  hymns  are 
to  take  their  place  in  the  worship  of  the  Church, 
and  to  be  sung  to  music ;  and  in  the  second  place, 
what  is  far  more  important,  the  worshippers  are 
not  merely  required  to  study  the  thoughts  and 
utterances  of  the  writers,  but  to  adopt  them  as 
their  own.  They  are  required  to  take  the  words 
on  their  own  lips,  to  sing  them  in  concert  with 
others,  and  to  use  them  as  the  expression  of  their 
own  beliefs  and  emotions  and  aspirations. 

This  at  once  introduces  a  new  feature  into  the 
case;  one  cannot  only  consider  the  rights,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  original  writers,  but  one  has  to 
consider  the  rights  of  the  congregations  who  will 
have  to  use  the  words.  Hymns,  indeed,  may  be 
said  to  pass  out  of  the  possession  of  the  writers, 
and  to  become  the  inheritance  of  the  users. 

Let  us  take  a  very  simple  case  first.  If  a  word 
were  to  acquire  some  horrible  or  even  flippant 
association,  it  would  be  absurd  to  insist  on  its 
continued  use  in  a  hymn-book,  if  it  were  to  pain 
or  amuse  the  congregations  that  used  it.  It 
would  surely  be  right  to  substitute  a  less  of- 
fensive word.  The  use,  for  instance,  of  the  word 
"  bloody  "  in  eighteenth-century  hymns  is  a  case 
in  point.  The  word  has  acquired  low  and  pro- 
fane associations.      It  may  be  regretted,  but  it 


Hymns  149 

is  the  fact.  Surely  no  one  would  object  to 
some  innocuous  word  like  "  crimson  "  being  sub- 
stituted? Again,  in  Rock  of  Ages  there  occurs, 
in  the  original,  the  disagreeable  expression: 
"  When  my  eyestrings  break  in  death,"  which  is 
a  touch  of  ghastly  realism.  The  Oxford  book 
restores  this,  but  to  my  mind  there  is  something 
I)edantic  and  even  irritating  in  expecting  people 
who  have  learned  to  love  the  simple  and  solemn 
alteration,  **  when  my  eyelids  close  in  death,"  to 
substitute  for  it  the  earlier  version;  I  would  go 
further,  and  say  that  there  is  something  really 
shocking  in  the  idea  of  ex|)ecting  a  congregation 
of  hundreds  of  persons  to  sing  the  dreadful  words 
in  public  together. 

It  may  freely  be  admitted  that  the  compilers 
of  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern  went  further  than 
they  need  have  done  in  altering  hymns,  and 
showed  an  unreasonable  terror  of  expressions 
that  were  in  the  least  degree  quaint  or  uncon- 
ventional. But  the  fact  remains  that  Hymns 
Ancient  and  Modern  has  now  been  used  for 
many  years  by  thousands  of  worshippers,  and 
that  the  very  alterations  are  now  invested  with 
countless  sacred  and  beautiful  associations.  It 
seems  to  me  a  harsh  and  even  stupid  thing 
deliberately  to  set  aside  and  ignore  that  fact 
in  the  interest  of  what  is  only  a  piece  of  literary 
recension.  The  general  and  decided  disapproval 
\\  ith  which  the  latest  revision  of  Hymns  Ancient 
and  Modern  has  been  received  ought  to  have  been 


150  Along  the  Road 

a  lesson  to  all  revisers.  In  that  last  revision, 
certain  familiar  and  favourite  tunes  which  people 
had  learned  to  love,  and  to  connect  with  solemn 
and  affecting  occasions,  were  wantonly  omitted, 
because  they  did  not  come  up  to  the  musical 
standard  of  a  few  purists.  In  matters  which 
concern  emotion,  one  cannot  venture  on  such  dic- 
tation; and  to  make  strict  taste  the  arbiter  in 
a  matter  of  the  kind  is  a  gross  violation  of  a 
much  more  important  kind  of  taste.  The  same 
principle  applies  to  the  words  of  hymns  and  songs 
which  generations  of  men  and  women  have 
learned  to  love.  It  is  the  emotion  they  evoke 
that  matters,  not  the  literary  quality  of  them. 
Hymns  and  tunes  alike  become  a  national  pos- 
session, and  one  may  no  more  eject  them  from 
manuals  meant  for  general  use,  on  grounds  of 
strict  taste,  than  one  might  cast  out  monuments 
from  Westminster  Abbey  because  they  were  not 
in  consonance  with  the  Gothic  design. 

Now  let  me  quote  a  few  examples,  taken  quite 
at  random.  In  Charles  Wesley's  hymn,  "  Hark ! 
the  herald  angels  sing.  Glory  to  the  new-born 
King,"  the  original  ran: 

"  Hark  how  all  the  welkin  rings 
Glory  to  the  King  of  Kings." 

There  was  possibly  no  need  to  alter  this,  though 
the  word  "  welkin  "  is  not  in  use,  and  it  is  a 
pity  to  have  to  use,  in  a  hymn  for  a  universal 


Hymns  151 

festival,  a  word  which  has  no  associations.  More- 
over, tlie  word  ^^  welkin  "  has  not  in  itself  a  very 
dijrnified  or  harmonious  sound.  But  the  altera- 
tions are  quite  innocuous — indeed  beautiful.  And 
further  they  are  old  alterations,  only  fourteen 
years  subsequent  in  date  to  the  original.  If  the 
original  had  been  the  altered  form,  the  suggestion 
to  substitute  "Hark  how  all  the  welkin  rings" 
for  "  Hark !  the  herald  angels  sing  "  would  have 
been  received  with  indignation  and  derision.  And 
since  generations  have  grown  up  with  some  of 
its  brightest  and  happiest  associations  connected 
with  the  later  form,  it  seems  to  me  injurious  to 
insist  on  restoration,  like  cutting  down  a  beauti- 
ful creeper  to  show  an  old  wall.  It  is  so  strange 
that  people  do  not  understand  that  accretions 
and  associations  form  half  the  beauty  of  an  an- 
cient thing,  whatever  it  be,  a  poem  in  words  or 
a  poem  in  stone. 

Again,  in  Milman's  hymn  for  Palm  Sunday, 
"  Ride  on,  ride  on  in  majesty,"  one  of  the  original 
lines  was  "  Thine  humble  beast  pursues  his  road." 
It  is  a  poor  and  undignified  line.  "  Humble 
beast "  suggests  "  humble  vehicle,"  and  the  para- 
phrase for  an  ass  is  essentially  a  journalist  de- 
vice.    A  reviser  very  sensibly  substituted : 

"  0  Saviour  meek,  pursue  Thy  road," 

which  is  a  very  unexceptionable  alteration,  and 
may  well  be  left  in  possession. 


152  Along  the  Road 

In  the  old  hymn  (1565)  "  O  Lord,  turn  not 
thy  face  [away]  from  me,"  the  second  line,  as 
revised  in  1708,  runs  "  who  lie  in  woeful  state  '• 
— not  a  very  effective  line,  but  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  archaic  character  of  the  hymn.  But  the 
Oxford  revisers  must  needs  restore  the  original 
line,  "  From  him  that  lieth  prostrate,"  which  from 
a  musical  point  of  view  is  most  objectionable,  as 
it  involves  an  ugly  slur  on  "  lieth  "  and  a  shifting 
of  accent  on  "  prostrate,"  which  is  now  accented 
on  the  first  syllable.  But  worse  than  this.  There 
was  a  stanza  most  judiciously  omitted,  containing 
the  impossible  line: 

"  I  am  sure  Thou  canst  tell." 

And  this  has  been  solemnly  restored,  though  by 
any  musical  notation  which  throws  the  accents 
on  to  "  am  "  and  "  Thou  "  the  line  becomes  simply 
grotesque. 

Again,  in  the  hymn,  "  As  now  the  sun's  de- 
clining rays,"  the  original  ran : 

"  Lord,  on  the  Cross  Thine  arms  were  stretched 
To  draw  us  to  the  sky," 

which  is  both  unpoetical  and  unreal.  One  cannot 
be  drawn  upwards  by  extended  arms,  but  by 
hands  extended  downwards.  The  first  revisers 
substituted  the  simple  and  beautiful  line,  "To 
draw  Thy  people  nigh  " ;  but  this  line,  which  is 


Hymns  153 

ail  improvement  from  every  i)oint  of  view,  and 
familiar  as  well,  has  been  ejected  for  the  sake  of 
the  unfortunate  original. 

In  Ken's  evening  hymn,  one  of  the  original  lines, 
in  the  stanza  "  Teach  me  to  live,"  ran: 

"  To  die,  that  this  vile  body  may 
Rise  glorious  on  the  awful  day." 

"  Vile  body  "  is  a  false  note,  and  a  conventional 
phrase.     The  alteration: 

"  Teach  me  to  die,  that  so  I  may  " 

is  one  of  those  simple  alterations  which  improves 
the  balance  of  the  stanza,  and  which  one  cannot 
help  fancying  would  have  even  commended  itself 
to  the  author.  Nothing  whatever  can  be  gained 
by  restoring  the  original  text,  and  no  one  can 
be  either  edified  or  pleased  by  the  change. 

Let   me  give  one   more  instance.     In   Faber's 
beautiful  hymn: 

"  O  come  and  mourn  with  me  awhile," 

the  original  second  line  was : 

"  See  Mary  calls  us  to  His  side." 

This  line  might  easily  appear  objectionable  to 
congregations  with  certain  traditions,  and  the 
alterations, 

"O  come  ye  to  the  Saviour's  side," 


154  Along  the  Road 

which  is  in  itself  more  dignified  and  beautiful, 
as  not  in  any  way  diverting  the  thought  from 
the  central  idea,  is  a  good  one  in  every  way. 

Throughout  the  same  hymn,  Faber  wrote  in 
every  case,  ^'  Jesus,  our  Love,  is  crucified."  This 
refrain,  though  beautiful  in  itself,  would  not  be, 
perhaps,  acceptable  to  people  not  familiar  with 
the  tone  of  the  ancient  hymnology,  and  might 
seem  to  have  a  sentimental  tinge,  not  in  thought 
perhaps  or  contemplation,  but  when  applied  to  a 
hymn  for  public  worship.  No  objection  could  be 
raised  to  the  substitution  of  "  Jesus,  our  Lord," 
and  the  restoration  of  the  original  phrase  is  very 
questionable.  Then,  in  the  last  stanza,  the  original 
hymn  ran : 

"A  broken  heart  Love's  cradle  is; 
Jesus,  our  Love,  is  crucified." 

This  is  a  beautiful  thought  beautifully  expressed ; 
but  the  metaphor  is  not  a  simple  one,  while  the 
expression  may  be  held  to  be  rather  of  a  literary 
or  poetical  type,  fit  for  reflection  rather  than 
ascription.     It  seems  to  me  that  the  alteration : 

"  Lord  Jesu,  may  we  love  and  weep, 
Since  Thou  for  us  art  crucified," 

is  simpler  and  even  more  moving,  and  I  can  well 
understand  that  any  one  who  had  grown  familiar 
with  it  would  greatly  resent  the  reintroduction 
of  the  original  phrase. 


Hymns  155 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  inst«auces,  but  I 
have  said  enough  to  illustrate  the  principle  I  wish 
to  enunciate,  which  is  of  a  democratic  and  even 
socialistic  type;  that  when  the  use  of  a  thing  is 
established,  it  cannot  be  tyrannously  interfered 
with  by  privileged  i>ersons.  We  may  regret  the 
accident  which  led  to  an  alteration  becoming 
])ublic  property,  but  we  can  no  more  restore  pri- 
vate rights  than  we  can  alienate  a  right-of-way. 
Hymns  cannot  be  treated  like  ordinary  literature, 
but  have  to  be  regarded  as  a  little  part  of  social 
life,  in  which  custom  and  use  justly  override  both 
literary  and  artistic  canons.  Thus  we  have  to 
realise  that  while  we  may  learn  lessons  from  the 
past,  and  do  our  best  to  prevent  mistakes  in  the 
future,  we  must  accept  the  past,  and  profit  by 
it  as  far  as  we  can.  We  have  to  recognise,  in 
dealing  with  hymns,  that  we  are  in  the  presence 
of  the  forces  of  tradition  and  association,  which 
are  stronger  and  more  important  than  literary 
maxims,  and  questions  of  artistic  propriety  and 
impropriety. 


PREACHERS  AND  PREACHING 

I  REMEMBER  reading  a  description  of  a  famous 
preacher  of  the  seventeenth  century,  whose  ser- 
mons as  a  rule  took  an  hour  and  a  half  to  deliver, 
whose  chief  merit  was  that  he  kept  the  congrega- 
tion in  a  perpetual  "  twitter,"  or,  as  we  should 
say,  in  an  agreeable  condition  of  interested  ex- 
pectation; and  I  recollect,  too,  a  caricature  of  a 
famous  eighteenth-century  preacher,  who  is  repre- 
sented craning  out  from  his  cushions,  with  his 
arms  uplifted  over  a  terror-stricken  and  gaping 
congregation,  with  the  words,  "  Ye  shall  be  slain, 
all   the   sort   of  you,"   issuing  from   his   mouth. 

Underneath  were  the  words :     "  Mr.  gives 

his  congregation  a  good  shaking  over  the  pit." 
Perhaps  the  reason  why  sermons  are  not  so  much 
appreciated  nowadays  is  that  they  are  too  polite, 
too  amiable.  They  result  neither  in  twitter  nor 
in  panic.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  wish  for 
the  old  methods  back  again,  but  I  feel  that  the 
duty  of  boldly  rebuking  vice  is  not  perhaps  suf- 
ficiently kept  in  view.  A  friend  of  mine  was 
once  talking  to  an  old  family  butler  about  a  son 
of  the  house  who  had  lately  taken  orders,  and 
156 


Preachers  and  Preaching        157 

gone  to  be  a  curate  in  a  colliery  village.  The 
old  man  said:  "  Mr.  Frank  has  got  himself  into 
sad  trouble  by  preaching  against  drunkenness; 
now  'e  should  'ave  stuck  to  the  doctrine,  sir. 
That  would  'ave  done  no  'arm ! "  Perhaps  the 
great  defect  of  sermons  at  the  present  day  is  that 
they  are  lacking  in  practical  shrewdness,  and  aim 
at  doing  no  harm.  After  all,  it  is  easy  to  be 
critical,  but  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  are 
great.  As  with  services,  the  problem  is  not  acute 
in  urban  districts.  With  a  staff  of  clergy,  and  a 
large  and  possibly  shifting  congregation — many 
of  whom  are  hardly  known  to  each  other — and, 
moreover,  with  the  possibility  of  obtaining  the 
lielp  of  neighbouring  clergy,  the  difficulties  are 
reduced  to  a  minimum,  though  no  doubt  the  diffi- 
culty of  obtaining  time  for  adequate  preparation 
still  remains.  In  a  town  parish  there  is,  or  need 
be,  no  lack  of  novelty — and  familiarity  is  the 
fruitful  mother  of  inattention — and,  moreover, 
there  are  no  social  complications  to  fear.  But 
in  a  country  parish,  where  every  one  knows  all 
about  every  one  else's  affairs,  it  is  a  serious  thing 
to  expect  a  man  to  deliver  a  discourse  twice  a 
Sunday,  year  in  and  year  out,  and  to  bring  the 
Gospel  home  to  his  neighbours.  It  was  easy 
enough  for  a  man  like  Charles  Kingsley,  burning 
with  zeal,  brimming  over  with  human  interest, 
and  with  a  perpetual  flow  of  vigorous  and  racy 
language,  to  make  truth  vital  and  inspiring.  But 
how  is  a  man  in  a  country  parish,  with  no  great 


158  Along  the  Road 

gift  of  speech,  and  perhaps  no  great  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  to  be  expected  to  deliver  in  the 
course  of  the  year  a  number  of  discourses  that 
would  amount,  if  printed,  to  more  than  one  bulky 
octavo  volume,  and  yet  to  preserve  any  freshness 
of  presentation,  any  moral  or  spiritual  stimulus? 
The  difficulty  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  if  he 
preaches  directly  and  forcibly  against  some  moral 
fault,  he  will  be  supposed  to  have  some  particular 
person  in  view;  and  the  mischief  is  that  he  is 
sure  to  have  some  one  in  view,  for  where  is  he 
to  make  his  sermons  if  not  out  of  his  own  experi- 
ence? The  only  way  is  to  speak  with  tenderness 
as  well  as  indignation,  and  without  personal 
anger  or  bitterness — and  this  is  not  an  easy 
matter. 

I  should  like  to  make  a  few  practical  sug- 
gestions as  to  how  the  difficulty  might  be  met. 
In  the  first  place,  I  cannot  see  why  the  clergy 
should  not  at  once  be  relieved  from  the  duty  of 
preaching  twice  on  a  Sunday.  The  sermons  might 
be  alternately  in  the  morning  and  the  evening. 
This  would  certainly  be  welcomed  as  a  great 
relief  by  many  of  the  clergy,  and  possibly  even 
by  some  of  the  congregations ;  for  I  have  observed 
that  the  highest  praise  that  can  be  given  by  many 
laymen  to  a  clergyman  is  that  he  preaches  short 
sermons ;  and  to  have  to  listen  Sunday  after  Sun- 
day to  a  preacher  whose  eloquence  one  can  neither 
stem  nor  controvert  is  a  real  trial  in  these  restless 
days  to  the  fidgety  layman.     But  if  this  change 


Preachers  and  Preaching        159 

is  impossible,  I  think  it  is  a  great  pity  that  the 
morning  sermon  is  not  more  often  made  a 
simple  exposition  of  Scripture.  I  believe  that  if 
the  clergy  went  quietly  through  the  Bible,  read- 
ing a  good  deal  and  expounding  a  little,  saying 
just  enough  to  make  the  circumstances  clear  and 
the  narrative  or  the  prophecy  intelligible,  it 
would  be  much  welcomed  by  many  congregations. 
The  other  sermon  ought,  I  believe,  to  be  entirely 
practical — an  application  of  the  principles  of  the 
Gospel  to  tne  thousand  and  one  little  problems 
of  daily  life.  *  A  man  ought  to  speak  plainly 
about  grave  faults,  for  people,  even  well-meaning 
people,  get  very  drowsy  over  their  faults,  and 
very  apt  to  draw  their  own  picture  with  the  lines 
and  shadows  left  out;  and  he  might  speak,  too, 
of  such  things  as  talk  and  reading,  of  punctuality 
and  orderliness,  of  courtesy  and  good-humour,  of 
sorrow  and  sickness,  of  money  and  work,  and  all 
the  endless  adventures  and  qualities  that  weave 
the  web  of  life.  Of  course,  it  is  diflScult  to  speak 
of  these  things  very  strikingly  and  forcibly — 
but  that  is  not  needed ;  the  point  is  to  speak  from 
experience,  and  not  out  of  books.  And  it  would 
be  well,  too,  if  the  clergy  practised  more  ex- 
tempore preaching.  The  spoken  word,  however 
halting  and  imperfect,  has  a  power  that  no 
written  discourse  ever  has. 

I  believe  that  one  w^ay  in  which  matters  of 
conduct  might  be  brought  home  to  people  with- 
out giving  personal  offence — which  is  a  very  real 


i6o  Along  the  Road 

danger  in  little  societies — would  be  by  using 
biographical  materials. 

I  have  heard  of  late  a  good  many  sermons  in 
out-of-the-way  places,  and  I  must  frankly  confess 
that  on  the  whole  I  have  wondered  to  find  them 
as  good  as  they  are,  considering  all  the  diffi- 
culties ;  for  no  doubt  the  attitude  of  the  ordinary 
layman  in  the  matter  is  both  captious  and  exact- 
ing. He  is  apt  to  expect  a  mild,  conventional, 
almost  feminine,  line  from  a  clergyman.  He 
grumbles  at  that;  and  when  the  clergy  are  vigor- 
ous and  stimulating,  he  shakes  his  head  and  talks 
about  Revivalism.  There  are  faults  on  both  sides, 
no  doubt.  But  I  have  often  thought  that  there 
can  be  few  more  disagreeable  and  humiliating 
things  in  the  world,  than  for  a  clergyman  who  has 
spent  time  and  trouble  on  a  sermon,  and  who 
desires  to  bring  home  what  he  has  to  say  to  his 
flock,  to  see  one  or  more  of  his  hearers  deliberately 
compose  themselves  to  sleep  before  his  eyes.  I 
have  felt  sometimes  that  were  I  in  the  pulpit 
I  should  publicly  remonstrate  against  such 
discourteous  usage.  Yet  I  have  never  heard  an 
offender  apologise  for  such  a  breach  of  decorum, 
except  in  a  perfunctory  way,  as  though  the  act 
was  both  natural  and  humorous. 

My  conclusion,  then,  would  be  this:  If  a  man 
has  the  art  of  impressive  statement,  or  if  he  has 
the  subtler  charm  of  originality  which  enables 
him  to  present  old  truths  in  a  new  and  arresting 
light,  the  thing  is  easy;  for  it  must  not  be  for- 


Preachers  and  Preaching        i6i 

gotten  that  it  is  not  enough  for  a  pastor  to  warn 
and  startle — he  must  also  be  able  to  attract  and 
guide  and  build  up;  but  if  he  has  not  this  power, 
as  long  as  he  is  sincerely  and  genuinely  in  earnest, 
and  as  long  as  he  is  content  to  try  his  best,  care- 
fully observing  when  he  succeeds  in  commanding 
the  attention  of  his  hearers,  and  when  he  fails 
and  why,  he  may  sow  the  seed  of  truth.  But 
perhaps  the  best  consolation  of  all  is  that  ex- 
ample is  better  than  precept,  and  that  work  tells 
even  more  than  words;  so  that  the  result  may 
be,  as  Browning  says : 

"  You  are  a  sermon,  though  your  sermon  's  nought." 

It  was  to  such  a  sermon  that  I  once  listened 
as  an  undergraduate — the  fumbling  utterance  of 
a  nervous  but  sincere  preacher.  Coming  out,  I 
said  jocosely  to  a  friend :  "  Do  you  feel  the  better 
for  that?"  *^  No,"  he  said  gravely,  looking  at 
me ;  "  I  feel  a  great  deal  worse."  And  then  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  question,  and  knew  that  the 
preacher  had  not  spoken  in  vain. 


ART  AND  LIFE 

I  HAVE  an  old  friend  who  is  a  writer,  I  was  going 
to  Baj  like  myself,  but  I  ought  rather  to  say  un- 
like myself.  We  often  discuss  the  dreadful  and 
delightful  business  of  writing — dreadful  or  de- 
lightful according  as  you  are  rowing  against  the 
stream  or  with  it.  I  do  not  mean  that  we  dis- 
cuss our  tools  and  habits — whether  we  work  with 
pen  or  pencil,  sitting  up  at  a  table  or  sprawled 
in  an  arm-chair.  But  we  discuss  the  craft,  or 
rather  the  art,  of  it  all.  The  conclusion  which 
he  always  draws — perhaps  I  do  not  wholly  agree 
with  him — is  that  I  am  only  a  craftsman,  while 
he  is  an  artist;  or,  possibly,  it  is  rather  that  I 
am  an  amateur,  while  he  is  a  professional.  He 
certainly  tells  me  some  very  astonishing  things 
— that  he  has  an  absolutely  exact  plan  in  his 
mind,  for  instance,  before  he  begins  to  write,  and 
that  he  knows  to  a  page,  and  almost  to  a  line, 
how  much  he  is  going  to  write.  Now,  I  have  a 
general  scheme  in  my  head,  of  course,  but  I  never 
know  till  I  actually  write  how  long  my  sections 
are  going  to  be.  He  derides  me  when  I  say  this, 
and  he  asserts  that  it  is  like  a  sculptor  saying 

162 


Art  and  Life  163 

that  he  never  knows  till  he  begins  a  statue  how 
big  the  limbs  are  going  to  be,  and  whether  one 
of  the  legs  is  not  going  to  be  twice  as  long  as 
the  other.  To  that  I  reply  that  I  am  of  the 
opinion  of  President  Lincoln,  when  his  Army 
Council  was  discussing  the  right  proportions  of 
a  soldier.  One  of  the  party  said,  "  How  long 
ought  a  man's  legs  to  be?"  "If  you  ask  my 
ojjinion,"  said  Lincoln,  "  I  believe  they  ought  to 
be  long  enough  to  reach  to  the  ground  I " 

Then  he  laughs,  and  tells  me  that  this  is  the 
whole  art  of  writing,  to  estimate  one's  material 
exactly  and  to  use  it  all  up;  and  that  the  words 
must  follow  the  writer,  not  the  writer  the  words. 
To  which  I  reply  that  with  me  the  thing,  what- 
ever it  is,  conies  up  like  a  flower,  and  makes  its 
own  structure;  and  then  he  says  that  I  have  no 
respect  for  form. 

I  have,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  gi*eat  respect  for 
form.  I  think  that  everything  depends  upon  how 
one  says  things.  Writers  are  permanent  or  tran- 
sitory in  virtue  of  style,  and  style  only.  Great 
and  deep  thoughts  confusedly  or  clumsily  ex- 
pressed have  not  a  quarter  of  the  chance  of  be- 
ing read,  or  of  lasting,  as  light  and  delicate 
thoughts  beautifully  and  charmingly  expressed. 
The  thoughts  of  poets,  for  instance,  are  not  only 
not,  as  a  rule,  new  or  intricate  thoughts,  but  they 
are  rather  thoughts  of  which  we  say,  when  we 
read  them  embalmed  in  fine  verse,  "  Yes,  I  have 
thought  that  vaguely  a  hundred  times,  but  could 


1 64  Along  the  Road 

not  put  it  into  shape! "  And  the  greatness  of  a 
writer  depends  almost  entirely  upon  the  extent 
to  which  he  can  make  people  recognise  their  own 
thoughts,  and  see  in  a  flash  how  beautiful  they 
are,  when  they  have  seemed  homely  and  common- 
place before.  We  most  of  us  can  recognise  the 
beauty  of  a  face  or  of  a  form,  when  we  see  it 
adorned  and  bravely  apparelled.  But  the  poet 
is  the  man  who  can  see  the  beauty  of  the  simplest 
folk  through  the  stains  of  toil  and  the  most 
workaday  costume. 

I  suppose  that  I  think  more  of  the  beauty  of 
language  than  the  proportions  and  balance  of 
thought.  And,  indeed,  a  certain  wildness  and 
luxuriance  of  shape  and  outline  is  pleasant  to 
me.  If  the  form  of  a  piece  of  writing  is  too 
apparent,  it  seems  to  me  like  a  clipped  yew  tree. 
I  had  rather  see  a  tree  growing  like  a  tree,  than 
cut  and  carved  into  the  shape  of  a  peacock  or 
a  vase. 

Our  neighbours  the  French  have  got  a  much 
stronger  sense  of  literary  form  than  we  in  Eng- 
land have.  But  in  their  stories  and  novels, 
though  I  can  often  see  a  certain  masterly  hand- 
ling of  the  form,  I  am  often  more  oppressed  than 
pleased  by  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  they  lose  the 
freedom  and  the  naturalness  of  life  thereby.  Life 
and  character  do  not  conform  to  artistic  pro- 
portions, and  if  one  sits  down  to  depict  life  and 
character  in  a  book,  one  ought,  I  feel,  to  follow 
the  natural  laws  of  life  and  character.     If  the 


Art  and  Life  165 

book  gives  me  tlie  feeling  of  the  author's  con- 
trolling hand,  then  I  begin  to  feel  that  it  is  a 
show  of  puppets  which  dance  on  wires  tied  to 
the  showman's  fingers.  It  is  a  pretty  perform- 
ance, and  wonderful  in  a  way;  but  I  am  not  in 
search  of  that  kind  of  wonder.  It  is  the  mystery, 
the  inconse<pience  of  life,  that  I  admire,  not  the 
deftness  of  the  performer's  conjuring.  And  thus 
I  like  great  loose,  vivid  books,  like  Tolstoy's 
novels,  which  give  me  no  cramped  feeling  of  form, 
but  seem  like  the  pageant  of  life  itself.  I  do 
not  want  everything  accounted  for  and  wound 
neatly  up.  I  want  the  thing  to  be  as  big,  as 
ragged,  as  untidy  as  life  itself,  or  at  least  to 
give  me  a  sense  of  bigness  and  untidiness. 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  a  very  useless  busi- 
ness making  literary  rules.  These  rules  are,  after 
all,  only  rules  deduced  from  the  work  of  great 
authors;  and  then  a  new  author  api)ears  and 
knocks  the  old  rules  to  pieces,  and  the  critics 
set  to  work  and  make  a  new  set  of  rules.  Take 
the  case  of  Ruskin.  When  he  was  writing  his 
early  books,  full  of  close  arguments  and  neat  sub- 
divisions, with  here  and  there  a  burst  of  elo- 
quence, flashing  and  curdling  like  a  falling  billow, 
he  was  doing  excellent  work  no  doubt.  But  those 
earlier  books  have  not  a  quarter  of  the  charm  of 
Foi\<i  Clavigera  or  Prwterita,  where  there  is  no 
sense  of  form  at  all,  and  which  ebb  and  flow  with 
a  delicious  and  unconstrained  beauty,  like  the 
actual  thoughts  of  a  man  unfolding  before  one's 


i66  Along  the  Road 

eyes.  Of  course,  by  that  time,  Ruskiu  was  a 
great  master  of  words;  but  the  charm  of  the 
later  books  consists  in  their  perfect  vitality  and 
reality.  In  Fors  Clavigera,  which  must  be  the 
despair  of  artists,  he  set  down  just  what  came 
into  his  head,  and  as  it  came;  and  not  only  did 
he  not  know,  when  he  sat  down  to  write,  the 
exact  proportions  of  his  chapter,  he  often  did  not 
know,  I  think,  what  he  was  going  to  say  at  all. 

What  I  really  believe  makes  the  difference 
between  artistic  writers  and  natural  writers  is 
this.  The  artistic  writer  is  thinking  of  his  per- 
formance, of  its  gracefulness,  its  charm,  its  shape ; 
and  T  think  he  must  have  in  his  mind  the  praise 
of  the  trained  critic,  though  he  obeys,  no  doubt, 
his  own  artistic  conscience.  A  great  writer  who 
had  a  touch  of  cynicism  about  him  said  that  the 
people  who  thought  that  authors  w^ote  for  the 
sake  of  applause  made  a  great  mistake — that  what 
they  wrote  for  was  money,  and  that  applause 
was  only  valuable  because  it  showed  that  you 
might  be  going  to  take  up  a  good  collection. 

There  is  truth  in  this,  because,  if  the  artist  is 
thinking  of  his  performance,  then  he  is  like  any 
other  professional — the  pianist,  the  conjuror,  the 
dancer — who  is  bound,  above  all  things,  to  please; 
and  he  knows  that  too  much  originality  is  a 
dangerous  thing,  because  people  are  more  pleased 
by  seeing  and  hearing  what  they  expect  to  see 
and  hear  than  by  seeing  or  hearing  something 
that  they  do  not  expect  to  see  or  hear.     But 


Art  and  Life  167 

the  other  kind  of  writer  is  thinking  more  of 
what  he  is  going  to  say,  and  the  possible  effect 
of  it  upon  the  minds  and  hearts  of  others.  He 
has,  of  course,  to  study  charm  and  impressive- 
ness,  but  he  does  that,  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
charm  or  the  impressiveness,  but  for  the  sake  of 
the  thoughts  that  he  cannot  withhold.  Perhaps 
he  has  seen  some  delicious  place,  and  wants  to 
share  his  sense  of  its  beauty  with  others ;  or  some 
idea  flashes  into  his  mind  which  seems  to  link 
together  a  number  of  scattered  thoughts  and  in- 
terpret them;  and  then  he  wishes  others  to  have 
the  same  delight  of  intuition.  Or  else  he  sud- 
denly finds,  in  the  light  of  experience,  that  some 
hard,  dry  maxim  is  terribly  or  beautifully  true 
after  all,  and  he  realises  that  the  old  proverb  is 
not  simply  a  dull  statement,  but  a  crystal  shaped 
from  a  thousand  human  hopes  and  fears. 

My  own  feeling  about  writing  is  that  it  is  all 
a  sharing  of  joy  or  sorrow  with  other  hearts.  Of 
course,  if  one  were  absolutely  simple  and  un- 
affected, one  could  talk  of  such  things  to  friends, 
or  even  to  the  people  one  meets  in  railway- 
carriages  or  on  farm-roads.  But  they  might  not 
understand  or  care;  or  they  might  think  me  im- 
pertinent or  crazy.  And  then  their  looks  and 
remarks  would  disconcert  me  to  such  an  extent 
thaf  I  should  think  myself  crazy  too.  But  one 
can  put  all  the  glory  and  wonder  of  these  things, 
and,  indeed,  all  the  sorrow  and  bitterness  too, 
into  a  book,  and  hope  that  it  may  fall  into  the 


i68  Along  the  Road 

right  hands.  Though,  of  course,  one  runs  the 
risk  that  it  may  fall  into  the  wrong  hands ;  and 
some  reviewers  may  tell  you  their  opinion,  as 
many  reviewers  have  told  me  at  different  times 
and  with  very  varying  degrees  of  courtesy,  that 
I  am  a  fool  for  my  pains — and  that  I  am  quite 
prepared  to  believe.  But  such  rebukes  never  dis- 
concert a  writer  who  believes  in  what  he  has  to 
say  and  desires  to  say  it,  because  he  knows  he 
cannot  please  everybody,  and  he  simply  perceives 
that  the  book  has  fallen  into  the  wrong  hands. 
1  wrote  a  book  the  other  day,  and  a  reviewer  in 
the  Guardian^  which  is  a  very  sensible  and  re- 
spectable paper,  headed  his  review,  "  More  about 
Mr.  Benson's  Soul,"  and  said  that  it  was  a  literary 
indecency  and  a  literary  crime,  and  an  insult  to 
my  readers  to  write  such  books.  Well,  I  am 
sorry  that  the  reviewer  should  feel  insulted.  If 
I  knew  his  name  I  would  gladly  express  my  re- 
gret. But  he  need  read  no  more  of  my  books, 
and  I  am  afraid  that  I  cannot  pretend  that  I 
shall  cease  to  write  them.  I  wish,  indeed,  that 
he  would  tell  me  more  about  Ms  soul,  and  then 
I  might  be  persuaded  to  adopt  his  much  higher 
ideal  of  literary  decency.  I  might  even  think  him 
reasonable,  instead  of  thinking  him,  as  I  do  now, 
rather  elaborately  rude.  But  I  do  not  for  a  mo- 
ment dispute  his  right  to  be  rude,  for  I  spoke 
first;  and  if  one  speaks  in  a  book,  there  are  sure 
to  be  ill-bred  people  within  hearing! 

But  I  fear  1  have  gone  all  wrong  about  form 


Art  and  Life  169 

again !  I  am  not  using  up  my  material  properly, 
and  the  figure  is  all  out  of  shape.  \Miat  I  was 
going  to  say  is  that  what  I  myself  value  in  a 
book  more  than  anything  else  is  a  sense  of  vitality 
and  reality.  I  like  the  feeling  of  contact  with 
another  human  soul,  and  I  even  value  this  in 
the  Guardian  review,  because  the  writer  is  cer- 
tainly speaking  his  mind.  But,  of  course,  one 
likes  one's  company  to  be  congenial,  and  the  sort 
of  soul  that  I  like  to  feel  myself  in  contact  with 
is  one  who  is  full  of  the  wonder  and  mystery  of 
all  life,  even  if  it  be  a  little  oppressed  and  be- 
wildered by  it;  one  that  desires  beauty  and 
gentleness  and  peace  and  order  and  labour  and 
good-humour  and  sense  to  prevail.  I  do  not  care 
so  much  about  being  brought  into  contact  with 
self-satisfied  and  confident  people,  who  use  the 
world  as  a  kind  of  bath  to  splash  about  in,  and 
scoff  at  the  idea  of  not  seizing  and  enjoying  what- 
ever one  is  bold  enough  or  strong  enough  to  take 
away  from  weaker  or  more  timid  persons.  I 
have  had  a  very  fortunate  life  myself,  and  more 
prosperity  than  I  have  deserved,  though  I  hope 
not  at  the  expense  of  other  people.  But  still  I 
have  been  confronted,  not  once  or  twice,  with 
very  grim,  severe,  terrible,  and  sorrowful  things, 
some  of  which  have  eventually  done  me  good,  but 
some  of  which  have  simply  crushed  and  maimed 
me.  I  have  not  found  any  explanation  of  these 
things  except  in  a  faith  that  has  learned,  however 
faintly  and  tremblingly,  to  believe  that  the  end 


170  Along  the  Road 

is  not  yet.  And  I  have  seen  horrible  calamities 
in  others'  lives  of  which  there  seems  no  reasonable 
or  hopeful  interpretation.  And  what  I  desire 
most  of  all  is  that  men  and  women  who  have  suf- 
fered themselves  and  have  seen  others  suffer  hope- 
lessly, and  who  yet  have  found  some  great  and 
beautiful  explanation,  should  tell  us  what  that 
explanation  is. 

Among  such  thoughts  as  these,  no  doubt  one 
does  grow  careless,  and  culpably  careless,  of  form 
and  proportion,  and  all  the  other  things  on  which 
the  literary  artist  sets  so  much  store.  And  there 
is  no  excuse  for  carelessness ! 

I  was  reading  the  other  day  a  curious  and 
interesting  passage  of  Suetonius  about  the  Em- 
peror Nero.  Nero  was  an  artist  at  heart,  who 
had,  so  far  as  we  know,  little  power  of  expression, 
and  was  insane,  too,  with  inherited  insanity.  We 
all  know  what  a  shipwreck  he  made  of  his  own 
life  and  his  empire  alike.  But  in  this  passage 
we  read  how  he  had  just  been  told  of  a  great 
revolt  in  Gaul.  He  saw  the  artistic  aspect  of  it 
all.  He  was  sitting  after  dinner  very  comfort- 
ably with  some  of  his  abominable  friends,  and  he 
said  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind,  and  he  was  going  out  at  once  to  the 
province;  that  the  moment  he  got  there  he  would 
go  out  unarmed  between  the  opposing  hosts,  and 
do  nothing  but  weep,  and  that  the  rebels  would 
be  so  touched  that  they  would  at  once  submit; 
and  that  on  the  following  day  they  would  all 


Art  and  Life  171 

liave  a  thanksgiving  together,  and  sing  an  ode, 
wliich  he  would  write — and  that  he  would  go 
away  at  once  and  write  it. 

I  do  not  know  that  anything  came  of  the  pro- 
ject or  of  the  ode;  but  that  seems  to  me  a  magni- 
ficent instance  of  a  person  who  cares  more  about 
the  artistic  part  he  was  himself  going  to  play 
than  about  the  result  he  wanted  to  achieve.  There 
is  the  danger  of  the  artistic  point  of  view;  and 
though  I  enjoy  fine  craftsmanship  with  all  my 
heart,  and  can  be  set  all  aglow  by  an  ode,  I  do 
not  want  to  think  that  this  is  the  end  of  art. 
The  thing  must  be  said  beautifully  and  impres- 
sively, because  people  will  not  listen  if  it  is  not. 
But  the  end  of  it  is  the  criticism  of  life,  the 
comparison  of  experience,  and  the  sharing  of  joy. 


SYMPATHY 

There  is  nothing  that  differentiates  men  and 
women  more  than  the  extent  to  which  they  need 
the  sympathy  of  others,  and  the  use  which  they 
make  of  it.  With  some  people,  under  the  shadow 
of  loss,  disaster,  discredit,  or  illness,  the  sym- 
pathy of  others  sustains  and  consoles  them,  pours 
balm  into  the  wound.  But  there  are  other  spirits, 
not  by  any  means  necessarily  more  brave  or  self- 
sufficient,  who  do  not  under  such  circumstances 
either  require  or  desire  sympathy.  Their  one  in- 
stinct, in  the  presence  of  a  catastrophe  which  is 
irreparable,  is  to  forget  it  as  far  as  possible,  to 
combat  remorse  and  grief,  not  by  facing  the 
situation,  but  by  distracting  themselves  from 
dwelling  upon  it,  and  by  flinging  themselves  as 
far  as  possible  into  normal  activities.  Person- 
ally, I  find  that,  if  I  am  in  trouble  of  any  kind, 
the  most  helpful  companions  are  not  those  who 
by  word  and  look  testify  their  sympathy.  It  is 
only  an  added  burden  of  sorrow  to  think  that 
one's  own  private  cares  are  lying  heavy  on  other 
hearts ;  while  the  sympathy  one  receives  tends  to 
turn  one's  thoughts  upon  the  hurt,  which  is  often 

172 


Sympathy  173 

trying  to  heal  in  its  own  way.  The  most  sus- 
taining influence  at  such  times  is  that  of  tran- 
quil people,  to  whom  one  knows  that  one  may 
appeal  for  practical  help,  if  one  requires  it,  but 
who  will  otherwise  tacitly  ignore  the  background 
of  anxiety,  and  behave  in  a  perfectly  normal  and 
natural  manner.  Because  the  best  tonic  of  all 
is  that  one  should  try  to  behave  normally  too, 
and  to  act  so  that  the  shadow  of  one^s  own  suf- 
fering should  not  rest  upon  other  lives.  Of 
course,  there  are  times,  in  grief  and  anxiety  and 
pain,  when  it  is  an  immense  comfort  to  be  able 
to  speak  frankly  of  what  is  in  one's  mind.  But 
one  wants  to  choose  one's  own  times  of  need  for 
doing  that,  and  not  to  be  encouraged  to  do  it 
to  the  detriment  of  the  wholesome  distractions 
which  relieve  the  weight  of  care. 

This  difference  comes  out  most  strongly  in  the 
case  of  illness.  There  are  some  people  who  like 
to  be  inquired  after,  to  detail  their  symptoms,  to 
indulge  their  sense  of  discomfort.  I  do  not  think 
that  this  tendency  is  one  that  ought  always  to 
be  repressed,  because  people  of  that  type,  if  they 
are  silenced,  are  apt  to  exaggerate  their  pains 
by  solitary  brooding.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
are  people  who  like  to  be  told  that  they  look 
well,  when  they  are  feeling  ill,  and  on  whom  such 
a  statement  acts  like  a  suggestion,  restoring  the 
hope  and  energy  with  which  they  battle  with 
malaise. 

Of  course,  there  are  times,  as  in  the  case  of  a 


174  Along  the  Road 

bereavement,  when  the  danger  is  that  men  and 
women  feel  drearily  and  hopelessly  the  loneliness 
and  isolation  that  the  loss  of  a  dear  one  brings ; 
then  undoubtedly  the  love  that  such  a  sorrow 
evokes  and  makes  audible  does  flow  with  healing 
power  into  the  gap.  Those  first  days  of  grief, 
when  the  mourner,  in  the  grey  dawn,  has  to  face 
the  desolation  and  the  silence,  are  very  hard  to 
bear  without  the  tangible  presence  of  human 
sympathy.  But  even  thus  sympathy  should  be 
as  a  medicine  and  not  as  a  diet.  As  we  are 
constituted,  a  burden  must  be  borne  alone;  it 
cannot  be  shifted,  it  cannot  be  carried  vicariously. 
The  loss  is  there,  and  the  duty  of  others  is  not 
to  minimise  that  loss,  but  to  keep  clearly  before 
the  sufferer  the  fact  that  all  is  not  lost;  that 
there  are  other  claims  and  duties,  other  hopes 
and  joys  felt,  which  no  sorrow  must  be  allowed 
to  obliterate. 

The  difficulty,  of  course,  both  for  the  sufferer 
and  for  the  friends  who  would  help  if  they  knew 
how,  is  to  decide  at  what  point  the  indulgence 
becomes  unwholesome.  To  demand  of  a  man  or 
a  woman  that  they  should  at  once,  after  some  de- 
vastating stroke  or  under  a  grievous  anxiety, 
resume  their  place  in  the  world  and  bear  their 
accustomed  burdens,  is  sometimes  simply  putting 
an  additional  strain  on  the  wounded  spirit.  It 
is  like  insisting  on  a  sprained  limb  being  used 
too  soon.  I  often  think  of  the  splendid  words 
of  Sir  Andrew  Barton  in  the  old  ballad : 


Sympathy  175 

"  I  '11  but  lie  down  and  bleed  awhile, 
And  then  I  *11  rise  and  fight  again." 

The  most  that  one^s  best  friends  can  do  is  to 
sii*j:<2:est  and  encourage  a  return  to  activity;  they 
ninst  know  when  to  hold  their  hand.  Instinct  is 
a  good  guide  up  to  a  certain  point.  The  wise 
physician,  the  perceptive  friend  must  try  to 
discern  when  the  natural  grief  becomes  a  morbid 
indulgence. 

I  think  that  men  are  sometimes  wiser  than 
women  at  seeing  when  the  ordinary  activities 
ought  to  be  resumed,  perhaps  because  their  sym- 
pathies are  more  limited.  The  heart  of  a  woman 
goes  out  much  more  instinctively  to  anything 
that  sorrows  and  suffers — indeed,  the  normal  man 
tends,  perhaps,  rather  to  dislike  and  to  shun  the 
presence  of  anything  maimed  and  broken.  He 
will  often  be  generous  enough  in  cases  where  prac- 
tical help  can  be  given,  but  has  not  the  instinct 
of  tending  to  the  same  degree;  and  the  sight  of 
suffering  often  gives  him  a  vague  and  helpless 
uTihappiness,  so  that  he  longs  to  get  out  of  an 
atmosphere  which  mars  his  own  tranquillity  with- 
out enabling  him  to  be  effective.  Most  men  like 
to  do  their  work  in  a  half-humorous  spirit,  and 
humour  is  a  quality  which  is  apt  to  have  an  ugly 
and  a  cynical  look  in  the  presence  of  sorrow.  But 
the  woman 

"  whose  instinct  is  to  wreathe 
An  arm  round  any  suffering  thing," 


176  Along  the  Road 

is  sometimes  so  solicitous,  so  pitiful,  so  unutter- 
ably tender-hearted,  that  the  bracing  element  dis- 
appears. The  fact  is  that  we  need  both  sympathy 
and  firmness;  and  the  difficulty  is  to  know  when 
we  must  rise  to  fight  again. 

The  great  truth  which  lies  behind  Christian 
Science  is  not  the  unreasonable  attempt  to  treat 
the  phenomena  of  grief  and  suffering  as  unreal, 
but  the  noble  truth  which  underlies  it  that  the 
victory  remains  with  hope  and  joy.  The  spirit 
must  fight  suffering  with  its  own  weapons,  and 
call  the  vigorous  forces  of  life  into  play.  Most 
of  us,  even  in  weakness  and  defeat,  are  capable 
of  more  endurance  than  we  feel. 

What  is  undoubtedly  a  far  harder  business  for 
most  of  us  is  to  sympathise  generously  and  sin- 
cerely with  joy  and  happiness  and  success.  We 
are  apt  to  feel  that  happiness  is  so  delightful  a 
thing  that  it  needs  no  sympathy;  and  thus  we 
often  tend  to  spoil  our  friends'  triumphs  and 
joys  by  giving  them  but  a  brief  and  formal  recog- 
nition, and  turning  to  more  congenial  things.  It 
is  a  great  strain  to  some  to  live  cheerfully  with 
a  very  robust  and  cheerful  person,  especially  if 
he  demands  an  audience  for  his  ecstasies.  But 
to  show  sympathy  with  the  joys  of  others,  even 
if  they  need  it  less,  is  a  very  necessary  piece  of 
self -discipline.  In  reading  the  lives  of  great  men, 
I  do  not  think  there  emerges  any  quality  quite 
so  splendid  as  that  of  generous  and  ungrudging 
admiration  for  the  successes  of  others.     We  most 


Sympathy  177 

of  us,  I  suppose,  in  our  hearts  desire  some  sort 
of  influence  and  power;  it  is  wonderful  what 
strange  paths  we  choose  to  arrive  at  that  goal! 
Many  of  us  think  that  harsh  and  derisive  critic- 
ism of  the  perfornmnces  of  others  gives  the 
hearers  a  sense  of  our  own  superiority ;  but  even 
from  the  lowest  motives  of  insincere  diplomacy, 
many  a  man  who  gets  nothing  but  discredit  and 
dislike  for  his  disapproval  and  depreciation  of 
otliers'  i>erformances,  could  stride  swiftly  into 
influence  by  a  royal  distribution  of  applause.  1 
do  not,  of  course,  mean  that  we  should  acquire  a 
liabit  of  bedaubing  everj^thing  with  disingenuous 
unction;  but,  in  criticism,  there  is  very  little  to 
be  said  for  ingenious  fault-finding.  Poor  work 
in  all  departments  finds  its  own  level  with  won- 
derful rapidity ;  but  we  should  be  eager  to  recog- 
nise with  ready  impartiality  and  sincere  approval 
any  particle  of  pure  gold. 

But,  of  course,  the  real  difficulty,  as  in  all 
spiritual  things,  lies  deeper  yet.  If  a  man  has 
cause  to  recognise,  by  mistakes  and  failures,  that 
he  is  cold  and  ungenerous  by  nature,  what  is  he 
to  do?  It  surely  makes  matters  only  worse  to 
add  hypocrisy  to  his  other  deficiencies?  Is  he 
daily  to  pretend  to  a  generosity  which  he  does 
not  possess?  Is  he  insincerely  to  praise  what  he 
sincerely  despises? 

Well,  if  a  man  could  answer  that  question,  he 
w^ould  hold  the  secret  of  life  in  his  hand.  The 
most  one  can  say  is  that  it  is  something  to  know 


178  Along  the  Road 

and  recognise  one's  deficiencies,  and  still  more 
to  hate  and  mourn  them.  So  we  advance  slowly ; 
and,  better  still,  there  is  an  old-fashioned  thing 
called  the  Grace  of  God,  which  we  can,  if  we  will 
try,  admit  to  our  narrow  hearts,  as  the  lake  pours 
into  the  confined  stream-channel.  To  do  all  we 
can,  and  yet  not  to  feel  that  we  have  only  our- 
selves to  depend  upon,  that  is  the  simple  secret 
which  has  turned  weak  spirits  before  now  into 
men  valiant  in  fight. 


JEALOUSY 

The  word  jealousy  is  one  that  has  changed  its 
meaning  in  the  last  three  hundred  years.  It  has 
acquired  an  almost  wholly  evil  sense,  and  is  ap- 
plied in  most  cases  to  matters  of  affection.  If 
one  describes  a  dog,  for  instance,  as  a  jealous 
dog,  one  means  that  it  resents  any  notice  being 
taken  of  other  dogs,  and  even  dislikes  seeing  its 
master  or  mistress  pay  attention  or  give  caresses 
to  other  human  beings.  If  one  says  that  a  man 
or  a  woman  is  of  a  jealous  nature,  it  would  be 
understood  to  mean  that  they  desired  to  con- 
centrate the  affections  of  their  circle  exclusively 
upon  themselves.  And  it  so  undoubtedly  now 
implies  a  mean,  sinful,  and  undesirable  quality 
that  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  it  is  almost 
a  pity  that  it  should  be  allowed  to  stand  in 
Scripture  as  an  epithet  applied  to  God.  In  the 
Second  Commandment,  for  instance,  "  For  I  the 
Lord  thj'  God  am  a  jealous  God,"  the  words  refer 
to  the  Divine  indignation  against  idolatry;  and 
when  Elijah  uses  the  word  of  his  own  feeling 
against  the  worshippers  of  Baal,  it  is  used  with 
no  sense  of  personal  resentment.  And  it  still  can 
179 


i8o  Along  the  Road 

be  used  in  that  particular  sense,  as  when  a  man 
says  that  he  is  more  jealous  for  some  one  else's 
honour  than  he  is  for  his  own.  Still,  it  seems  a 
pity  that  a  word  should  stand  as  an  epithet  ap- 
plied to  God,  when  one  would  seldom  apply  such 
an  epithet  to  another  human  being  without  the 
intention  of  implying  censure  on  an  odious  and 
deplorable  moral  weakness.  Of  course  it  is  al- 
ways difficult  to  express  Divine  qualities  except 
by  transferring  terms  which  represent  human 
emotion;  it  may  be  said  in  this  particular  case 
that  a  simple  explanation  is  all  that  is  needed. 
Rut  people  who  have  become  perfectly  familiar 
with  an  expression  do  not  always  remember  to 
furnish  an  explanation  to  those  who  are  not  so 
familiar  with  it;  and  the  fact  remains  that  one 
acquiesces  in  a  word  being  applied  to  God  in 
Scripture  which  one  would  rarely  use  of  a  man 
without  suggesting  that  it  represented  a  feeling 
of  which  he  ought  to  be  ashamed. 

Jealousy  is  not  one  of  the  faults  which  are 
only  the  shadow  of  intelligence  and  reason;  it  is 
part  of  the  animal  inheritance  of  man.  Faults 
such  as  untruthfulness,  insincerity,  irreverence, 
cynicism,  are  faults  which  come  from  the  misuse 
of  reason  and  imagination.  But  jealousy  is 
simply  a  brutish  fault,  the  selfish  and  spiteful 
dislike  of  seeing  others  enjoy  what  one  would 
wish  to  enjoy  oneself.  It  even  goes  deeper  than 
that,  and  becomes,  when  deeply  rooted,  a  mere 
dislike  of  seeing  other  people  happy,  even  though 


Jealously  i8i 

one  is  happj'  oneself.  There  are  people  who  like 
to  spoil  the  grace  of  a  gift  by  giving  it  gnidgingly 
and  conditionally;  and  worse  still,  there  are  \^eo- 
ple  who  like,  if  they  can,  to  throw  cold  water 
over  the  enjoyment  of  others,  and  belittle  or  ex- 
plain away  their  successes.  One  of  the  most 
curious  of  well-known  instances  is  the  case  of 
^fr.  Barrett,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Brdwning.  He 
was  a  man  who  was  passionately  attached  to  his 
children;  he  desired  their  love  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  could  not  bear  to  see  them  care  for  any 
one  else.  He  refused  his  consent  to  his  daughters' 
marriages,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  ungrateful 
of  them  to  wish  to  leave  him.  When  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing, knowing  that  it  was  impossible  to  hope  that 
he  would  consent  to  her  marriage  with  the  poet, 
married  him  clandestinely,  and  went  away  to 
Italy,  hoping  that  she  might  ultimately  be  for- 
given, her  father  never  opened  any  of  her  letters, 
refused  ever  to  see  her  again,  and  kept  to  his 
word.  It  was  an  intense  grief  to  Mrs.  Browning, 
but  she  never  took  a  morbid  view  of  the  situation, 
and  realised  with  supreme  good  sense  that  no 
human  being  has  the  right  to  cripple  another's 
life,  and  to  deny  another  the  paramount  gift  of 
wedded  love.  In  Mr.  Barrett's  case  jealousy  al- 
most amounted  to  a  monomania,  though  we  are 
perhaps  too  ready  nowadays  to  excuse  the  desper- 
ate indulgence  of  some  one  pernicious  fault  in  a 
character,  otherwise  sane  and  balanced  enough, 
on  the  grounds  of  some  mental  or  moral  warp. 


1 82  Along  the  Road 

One  may  perhaps  so  excuse  it,  if  one  finds  a  man 
acting  constantly  in  some  misguided  manner,  not 
only  in  defiance  of  principle,  but  against  his  own 
better  aims  and  wishes.  But  it  never  seems  to 
have  occurred  to  Mr.  Barrett,  that  he  was  acting 
unworthily  or  unjustly,  or  that  he  ought  to  have 
regulated  his  conduct  by  the  principles  of  ethics 
or  religion. 

When  one  sees  jealousy  manifested  in  the  case 
of  animals,  it  has  its  pathetic  and  even  its  beauti- 
ful side.  Some  friends  of  mine  had  an  extraor- 
dinarily affectionate  and  devoted  collie.  One  of 
the  daughters  was  married,  and  when  her  first 
baby  was  born,  she  brought  the  child  back  to  her 
parents'  house  on  a  visit.  Poor  Rover  could  not 
understand  what  had  happened.  A  horrid  little 
object,  with  no  semblance  of  humanity,  that  could 
only  sleep  and  squeak  and  bubble,  that  could  not 
pat  him,  or  walk  with  him,  or  throw  sticks  for 
him,  had  become  the  object  of  general  attention 
and  worship  on  the  part  of  the  whole  household, 
previously  so  harmonious.  The  result  was  that 
after  unavailing  attempts  to  regain  the  affection 
he  had  somehow  forfeited,  after  sitting  hour  by 
hour  on  the  outskirts  of  the  absorbed  group 
wagging  his  tail,  bringing  sticks  and  envelopes, 
looking  appealingly  from  one  to  the  other,  he 
despaired;  and  when  at  last  the  dreadful  change- 
ling was  put  down  on  a  sofa,  he  went  and  bit 
its  arm,  not  severely,  but  enough  to  show  that 
he  himself  must  not  be  entirely  neglected.     I  am 


Jealousy  183 

thankful  to  say  that  my  friends  realised  that 
they  had  sinned  against  constancy  and  affection ; 
and  instead  of  having  Rover  destroyed  or  given 
away,  they  recognised  his  claims  to  attention; 
and  he  lived  long  enough  to  be  the  pet  and  faith- 
ful companion  of  the  once-detested  infant. 

But  when  the  same  sort  of  quality  is  indulged 
and  encouraged  by  a  reasonable  human  being, 
who  ia  in  a  position  to  make  his  ill-temper  felt 
by  his  circle,  it  becomes  a  very  Satanic  fault 
indeed.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  it  is  a  failing 
which  often  goes  in  the  first  place  with  a  sen- 
sitive and  deeply  affectionate  nature;  and  in  the 
second  place,  it  is  a  quality  which  friends  and 
relations  are  apt  to  minister  to,  by  giving  way  to 
it  and  by  trying  to  remove  occasions  of  offence; 
for  the  simple  reason  tliat  the  jealous  person  can 
often  be  so  infinitely  charming,  when  the  fiend 
is  not  aroused,  and  can  plunge  a  whole  household 
into  agitated  depression,  anxious  conferences,  and 
uncomfortable  silences,  if  his  suspicions  are  once 
kindled. 

Our  complacent  indifference  to,  and  even  our 
unconfessed  pleasure  in,  the  lesser  misfortunes  of 
other  people  is  a  very  dark  and  evil  inheritance. 
The  other  day  I  was  out  walking  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Cambridge,  and  a  man  just  in  front  of 
me  in  the  road  had  an  accident  with  his  bicycle; 
he  tore  his  clothes,  and  he  so  dislocated  his 
machine  that  portions  of  it  projected  in  an  ab- 
surd and  grotesque  manner.     He  was,  moreover, 


1 84  Along  the  Road 

gifted  by  nature  with  a  rueful  and  disconsolate 
visage.  He  wheeled  his  bicycle  into  the  town, 
and  I  followed  close  behind  him;  for  nearly  half 
a  mile  I  did  not  see  a  single  person  who  observed 
him  who  did  not  undisguisedly  smile  or  even 
laugh  at  the  spectacle.  Yet  I  have  no  doubt  that 
most  of  those  who  saw  it  were  naturally  good- 
humoured  and  kindly  people  enough.  They  would 
have  taken  endless  trouble  to  help  the  ma.n  if  he 
had  been  seriously  hurt.  They  saw  well  enough 
that  he  was  uncomfortable  and  discomposed ;  that 
he  had  probably  hurt  himself,  had  incurred  delay 
and  possibly  expense.  They  knew,  no  doubt,  that 
they  would  themselves  have  greatly  disliked,  in 
a  similar  plight,  being  laughed  at  by  every 
passer-by,  and  yet  the  instinct,  combined  with 
the  absence  of  active  imagination,  was  too  strong, 
and  the  sight  undoubtedly  afforded  them  pleasure. 
It  is  this  fact  which  undoubtedly^  lies  at  the 
base  of  ordinary  jealousy — the  dreadful  and 
humiliating  fact  that  most  of  us  are  not  genuinely 
pleased  at  the  good  fortune  of  others,  or  grieved 
at  their  calamities,  but  the  other  way.  Of  course, 
this  does  not  hold  true  as  a  rule  of  one's  inner- 
most circle,  because  the  sorrows  of  those  very 
near  to  us,  even  if  we  do  not  love  them  parti- 
cularly, are  bound  to  overshadow  us,  or  at  least 
to  inconvenience  us;  while  if  a  golden  shower 
falls  upon  them,  a  little  of  it  is  apt  to  splash  over 
upon  ourselves.  I  remember,  indeed,  when  I  was 
a  boy,  that  I  was  told  that  one  of  my  younger 


Jealousy  185 

brothers  had  been  left  a  small  fortune.  It  turned 
out  afterwards  not  to  be  the  case,  as  the  legacy 
in  question  was  shared  between  him  and  several 
others.  But  I  recollect  that  my  first  feeling — 
and  at  the  same  time  I  must  do  myself  the  jus- 
tice to  say  that  I  was  ashamed  of  it — was  not 
one  of  pleasure.  The  unregenerate  heart's  first 
thought  is,  "Why  him  and  not  me?"  I  do  not 
think  so  ill  of  human  nature  as  to  say  that  we 
are  most  of  us  deliberately  pleased  to  hear  of  a 
misfortune  happening  to  an  acquaintance,  but 
the  feelings  which  it  arouses  are  not  as  a  rule 
those  of  unmixed  sorrow;  even  the  best  people 
have  a  comfortable  sense  of  heightened  security 
resulting  from  the  news,  or  at  leairt  a  sense  of 
thankfulness  that  the  misfortune  has  not  befallen 
themselves.  But  to  be  whole-heartedly  glad  of  the 
success  or  good  fortune  of  an  acquaintance  is  a 
sign  of  a  really  generous  and  kindly  nature.  We 
do  most  of  us  need  to  discipline  ourselves  in  the 
matter,  and  we  ought  to  encourage  and  nurture 
by  every  means  in  our  power  the  sense  of  shame 
and  self-contempt  which,  after  all,  we  do  feel  on 
reflection  at  the  thought  of  how  little  we  are 
affected  by  pleasure  at  others'  good  fortune,  or 
by  sorrow  at  others'  calamities.  The  apostolic 
command  to  rejoice  with  those  that  rejoice  and 
to  weep  with  those  that  weep  is  by  no  means  a 
platitude,  but  a  very  real  and  needful  counsel  of 
Christian  conduct. 

Of  course,  the  whole  thing  is  largely  a  matter 


i86  Along  tfk  Road 


of  temperament;  but  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to 
excuse  oneself  by  saying,  *'  That  is  how  I  am 
made."  The  point  is  how  to  unmake  oneself,  how 
to  change  oneself! 

A  friend  of  mine  told  me  that  he  once  went  to 
pay  a  call  at  the  house  of  a  well-known  man. 
He  found  in  the  drawing-room  his  host's  wife  and 
her  unmarried  sister,  who  lived  with  them,  both 
gifted,  accomplished,  and  delightful  women.  They 
had  a  very  interesting  talk.  Suddenly  the  front 
door  opened  and  shut  rather  sharply  below.  A 
silence  fell  on  the  two  charming  ladies.  Presently 
the  sister-in-law  excused  herself  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  She  came  back  a  few  moments  later 
with  rather  an  uneasy  smile,  and  said  in  an  under- 
tone to  the  wife,  "  He  says  he  won't  have  any  tea. 
Perhaps  you  would  just  go  down  and  see  him." 
The  wife  went  down,  and  remained  away  for  some 
minutes.  She  came  back  and  gave  a  little  glance 
to  her  sister-in-law,  who  again  slipped  out  of 
the  room,  and  the  conversation  continued  in 
rather  a  half-hearted  manner.  My  friend  decided 
that  he  had  better  go,  and  departed,  aware  that 
his  departure  was  a  relief.  He  said  to  me  that 
it  gave  him  a  great  sense  of  depression  to  think 
of  the  constant  repetition  of  similar  scenes.  The 
husband  w^as  a  man  of  moods,  jealous,  irritable, 
self-absorbed,  and  the  sense  of  his  possible  dis- 
pleasure lay  like  a  cloud  in  the  background  of 
the  lives  of  these  delightful  women.  He  was  apt 
to  be  vexed  if  things  did  not  happen  exactly  as 


Jealousy  187 

he  wished,  while  at  the  same  time  he  was  annoyed 
if  any  notice  was  taken  of  his  moods,  or  if  he 
thought  he  was  being  humoured  and  arranged  for. 
What  distresses  one  about  such  a  case  is  the  silly 
waste  of  happiness  and  peace  that  such  a  dis- 
position can  cause,  in  a  circle  where  there  are 
all  the  materials  for  the  best  kind  of  domestic 
content.  Yet  the  case  is  not  a  very  uncommon 
one,  and  the  cause  a  mere  lack  of  self-discipline. 

The  only  hope  for  such  temperaments  is  that 
they  should  become  aware,  early  In  life,  of  all 
the  unhappiness  they  can  create,  and  determine 
that,  whatever  they  feel,  they  will  behave  with 
courtesy,  justice,  and  kindness.  The  difficulty  is 
that  the  most  trivial  incidents  tend  to  confirm  and 
increase  such  irritable  suspicions,  and  there  is, 
moreover,  in  jealous  people,  a  sense  of  compla- 
cency in  the  thought  of  how  much  they  can  affect 
and  influence  the  emotions  of  their  circle.  But 
such  power  is  a  very  mean  and  selfish  business. 
The  worst  of  it  is  that  it  is  perfectly  possible 
for  a  man  to  despise  and  to  condemn  such  con- 
duct in  others,  and  yet  to  do  the  very  same 
thing  himself  and  to  justify  it,  not  without  a 
certain  contemptible  pride  in  his  own  superior 
sensitiveness. 


HOME  TKUTHS 

It  is  a  question  of  great  difficulty  to  what  extent 
it  is  a  privilege  or  a  penalty  of  friendship  to  tell 
a  friend  of  his  faults.  A  great  many  people  have 
one  or  more  rather  patent  and  obvious  faults,  not 
very  serious  perhaps — faults  of  temper,  manner, 
demeanour,  irritating  tricks,  disagreeable  ways, 
tiresome  economies,  which  cause  friction  and  un- 
pleasantness, quite  out  of  proportion,  it  may  be,  to 
the  motive  or  quality  which  lies  behind  them.  I 
once  knew  a  man,  for  instance,  who  resorted  to  the 
most  transparent  devices  in  order  not  to  pay  his 
share  of  a  vehicle  or  a  hotel  reckoning.  He  was 
a  wealthy  man,  and  I  suppose  that  the  habit  was 
rooted  in  a  desire  for  economy;  but  I  am  sure 
that  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  observed  or 
commented  upon,  and  if  he  had  realised  what  very 
disagreeable  remarks  were  made  on  the  subject 
by  his  acquaintances  he  would  have  taken  very 
good  care  to  amend  matters.  And  again,  there 
are  little  habits,  like  the  use  of  certain  scents, 
insufficient  ablutions,  the  flourishing  of  tooth- 
picks, hawkings,  and  throat-clearings,  which  may 
grow  by  mere  habit  highly  offensive  to  one's  com- 

i88 


Home  Truths  189 

paiiious.  And  then  there  is  a  whole  range  of 
faults  of  manner,  roughnesses,  rudenesses,  con- 
trad  ictorlness,  snappish  ness,  domestic  fault-find- 
ing conducted  in  public,  personal  preferences 
imposed  upon  guests — all  the  things  which  arise 
l»artly  fiom  want  of  observation,  and  partly  from 
petty  selfishness — things  not  very  serious  in  them- 
selves, but  the  removal  of  wliich  would  add  im- 
mensely to  the  pleasantness  and  ease  of  life  in 
the  particular  circle  involved;  and  then,  again, 
there  are  things  like  snobbishness,  inquisitiveness, 
untrustworthiness,  violations  of  privacy,  blabbing 
of  secrets,  ostentation,  censoriousness,  which  may 
not  afl'ect  a  man's  virtue  or  honour,  but  which 
make  otlier  people  uncomfortable  or  on  their 
guard  in  his  company. 

The  question  is  whether  it  is  a  plain  duty  for 
a  friend  to  represent  the  facts,  and  to  testify  to 
the  offender  on  such  points  if  the  offender  is  a 
friend.  It  is  often  quite  clear  that  a  man  is  un- 
conscious of  such  faults.  They  have  grown  upon 
him  in  all  probability  from  small  beginnings;  and 
if  he  is  unsensitive  and  unobservant,  he  is  pro- 
bably wholly  unaware  of  the  prominence  which 
they  have  assumed. 

Now  let  me  tell  a  simple  story  to  illustrate 
what  may  happen  in  such  a  case.  An  acquaint- 
ance of  mine  developed  a  kind  of  curious  grunt- 
ing noise,  which  he  interjected  into  all  his 
remarks,  and  with  which  he  punctuated  all 
silences.     It  became  both  ludicrous  and  offensive. 


190  Along  the  Road 


His  family  circle  debated  the  question,  and  it 
was  at  last  decided  that  a  near  relative  had  better 
inform  him  of  the  fact.  The  relative  did  so.  The 
offender  was  very  much  annoyed,  volubly  denied 
it,  and  added  that  he  would  desist  from  the  prac- 
tice. He  did  so  for  a  short  period,  and  then  took 
to  it  again  as  badly  as  ever.  He  was  thus  in 
the  position  of  believing  that  he  had  cured  himself 
of  a  trick,  and  he  never  quite  forgave  the  relative 
for  his  interference. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  developed  a  very  in- 
genious scheme.  He  held  that  the  need  for  people 
to  be  told  of  their  faults  was  an  urgent  one,  but 
that  their  friends  could  not  be  expected  to  do  it. 
So  he  suggested  that  there  should  be  a  small 
Government  department,  with  a  staff  of  inspectors 
or  Truth-tellers,  to  whom  a  report  of  the  circum- 
stances could  be  referred.  If  the  report  was  ade- 
quately backed,  and  the  office  considered  the  case 
a  suitable  one,  after  the  payment  of  certain  fees,  a 
Truth-teller  would  be  sent  down  to  the  offender, 
to  inform  him  without  bias  or  animus,  in  a  purely, 
judicial,  and  if  possible,  judicious  way,  of  the 
fault.  This  system,  my  friend  affirmed,  would 
do  more  for  household  peace  than  much  social 
legislation. 

But,  speaking  seriously,  the  difficulty  is  great. 
Fortune  sometimes  sends  one  a  direct  oppor- 
tunity. A  friend  may  consult  one  in  such  a  way 
that  one's  course  is  clear.  A  friend  of  my  own 
did  once  ask  my  advice  about  a  painful  situation 


Home  Truths  191 

in  which  he  found  himself,  owing  to  his  having 
given  great  offence  to  a  relation  of  his  own  by 
his  remarks  upon  a  private  incident.  He  asked 
nie  to  tell  him  quite  frankly  and  candidly  whether 
he  was  to  blame.  The  fault  was  in  this  case  a 
fault  of  manner,  arising  from  a  habit  he  had 
formed  of  expressing  himself  with  an  extravagant 
vehemence  and  intemperance  of  comment  which 
was  often  quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  cause. 
T  did  tell  him  quite  plainly  what  T  believed  to 
be  wrong;  he  was  not  only  grateful,  but  the  in- 
cident served  to  confirm  and  strengthen  our 
friendship,  while  he  contrived  quite  successfully 
to  combat  the  tendency. 

And  then,  occasionally,  one  is  given  an  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  the  necessary  truth  in  a  moment 
of  anger,  justifiable  or  unjustifiable.  There  was 
an  eminent  judge,  who  had  got  into  the  habit, 
after  a  game  of  whist,  of  commenting  very  irri- 
tably and  offensively  on  his  partner's  play. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  if  you  had  played  the  queen 
you  would  have  had  them  at  your  mercy?  It  is 
simply  incredible  to  me  that  you  could  throw 
away  all  our  chances — oh,  the  tricks  we  have 
lost !  "  The  man  who  effected  the  reformation  was 
an  unskilful  player,  and  a  quick-tempered  person 
as  well.  At  the  conclusion  of  one  of  these  tirades 
he  said,  "You  seem  to  think,  Sir,  that  you  are 
still  in  your  beastly  old  police-court!" 

It  was  said  with  straightforward  anger,  and  it 
is  hard  to  say  that  the  anger  was  not  justifiable; 


192  Along  the  Road 

and  I  must  add  that  I  believe  it  was  entirely 
effectual. 

But  this  is,  of  course,  a  social  matter.  The 
thing  is  far  harder  when  it  is  an  ethical  ques- 
tion. If  one  sees  a  man  giving  a  wrong  im- 
pression of  himself,  vitiating  his  own  effectiveness, 
causing  misunderstanding  and  ill-feeling,  it  does 
sometimes  appear  to  be  a  duty  for  a  f^^iend  to 
remonstrate.  But  one  is  obliged  to  look  facts  in 
the  face,  to  remember  that  people  are  human,  and 
that  one  must  risk,  if  one  does  think  it  necessary 
to  speak,  not  only  a  disagreeable  interview,  which 
it  may  be  a  duty  to  face,  but  what  is  a  much 
more  serious  thing,  losing  a  man's  friendship  and 
confidence.  Of  course,  a  man  ought  to  regard  a 
fiiend  who  has  told  him  an  unpleasant  truth 
with  increased  affection  and  respect;  but  the 
flesh  is  weak,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  it 
is  very  hard  to  be  at  ease  in  the  presence  of  a 
man  who  has  unveiled  to  oneself  a  thoroughly 
disagreeable  trait. 

And  thus  the  question  resolves  itself  into  this : 
Is  one  bound  to  risk  losing  a  friendship  for  the 
sake  of  trying  to  effect  a  moral  improvement  in 
a  friend?  If  one  reads  the  Gospel,  one  finds 
there  is  a  good  deal  about  loving  other  people 
and  supplying  their  needs,  but  there  is  very  little 
indeed  about  the  duty  of  finding  fault  or  lec- 
turing them  or  improving  them.  There  is  a  bless- 
ing on  the  pure-hearted  and  on  the  peacemaker, 
there  is  no  beatitude  for  the  reprover  and  for 


Home  Truths  193 

tlie  rebuker.  In  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son, 
the  father  is,  of  course,  the  hero  of  the  story.  It 
is  a  pity  tliat  the  parable  was  ever  called  the 
Prodigal  Son,  because  he  is  quite  a  subsidiary 
character,  and  his  motives  for  repentance  are 
f lankly  deplorable.  But  the  father  has  not  a 
word  of  blame  for  the  sufferer:  the  poor  wretch 
has  been  punished  enough,  and  the  father  leaves 
it  there;  he  does  not  rub  in  the  heavy  lessons 
of  experience,  or  even  express  a  hope  of  seeing 
a  real  amendment.  Without  blame,  without  ques- 
lion,  without  exhortation,  he  takes  the  unhappy 
(feature  back  to  his  heart,  and  bids  the  minstrels 
<](>  their  best  to  cheer  the  simple  feast.  The  only 
IK^rson  who  expresses  perfectly  just  and  natural 
indignation  is  the  elder  brother,  and  even  for  him, 
ungracious  and  detestable  as  he  is,  the  father  has 
no  word  of  blame.  He  only  begs  him  to  banish 
ail  thoughts  except  a  natural  and  kindly  joy. 
rhe  secret  of  the  parable  is  that  by  loving  people 
ilirough  thick  and  thin,  if  one  can,  the  real  vic- 
tories are  won;  and  that  the  only  improvement, 
tlie  only  regeneration  which  is  worth  anything, 
comes  that  way.  The  fees  of  experience,  as 
Stevenson  says,  are  apt  to  be  heavy — that  can- 
not be  avoided  I  If  men  will  not  hear  Moses  and 
the  prophets,  they  will  not  listen  even  to  one 
risen  from  the  dead.  Remorse  and  regret  are  the 
shadow  of  sin,  but  they  have  no  healing  power. 
The  only  restorative  is  to  see  the  beauty  and  the 
happiness  of  unquestioning  love;  even  the  casting 
13 


194  Along  the  Road 

out  of  evil  is  worse  than  useless,  unless  its  place 
is  supplied  by  a  stronger  and  a  sweeter  force.  It 
may  not  be  the  creed  of  the  Puritan,  but  it  is 
the  creed  of  Christ — that  nothing  must  stand  in 
the  way  of  love.  The  only  thing  that  called  forth 
Christ's  bitter  denunciation  was  the  unloving 
rigidity  of  the  self-righteous;  and  there  can  be 
no  sort  of  doubt  that  an  absolutely  uncritical 
and  unquestioning  love  is  a  far  higher  and  more 
heavenly  thing  than  any  enforcement  of  moral 
standards,  however  lofty,  if  they  are  not  rooted 
in  love.  Nothing  can  be  done  by  mere  disap- 
proval; but  the  love  that  hopes  and  expects  and 
believes  that  the  thing,  whatever  it  be,  in  each 
of  us,  that  evolves  love  and  is  worthy  of  it  will 
somehow  triumph  and  prevail;  that  is  what  calls 
out  effort  and  strength,  and  purifies  while  it 
uplifts,  and  because  it  uplifts. 


I 


SUPERSTITION 

1  REMEMBER  ODce  Hs  a  boj — it  must  have  been  in 
the  year  1870 — sitting  on  the  seat  of  a  diligence 
which  was  scrambling  along  a  high  road  in  Nor- 
mand3%  through  open  agricultural  country — wide 
fields  and  tree-embosomed  farms,  with  here  and 
there  a  clustered  village  of  white  houses.  On  the 
seat  beside  me  sat  Westcott,  then  a  Cambridge 
Professor,  who  was  taking  his  summer  holiday 
with  us,  dressed  in  rough  black,  with  an  old  soft 
wide-awake  on  his  head,  wrapped  up  in  his  in- 
variable grey  plaid  shawl,  and  with  the  accus- 
tomed sketch-book  in  his  hand.  He  sat  silent, 
rather  hunched  up,  his  mouth  compressed,  his 
brows  contracted,  and  with  those  wonderful  ex- 
])ressive  eyes  of  his  looking  fixedly  at  the  moving 
landscape.  Every  now  and  then  he  raised  his 
hat  as  if  in  salute.  I  watched  him  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  ventured  to  ask  him  why  he  took 
off  his  hat  so  often.  He  gave  a  characteristic 
little  start,  smiled  very  intently,  and  then  blushed. 
Then  he  said,  "It's  those  magpies!"  The  coun- 
try, indeed,  seemed  full  of  them;  three  or  four 
at  a  time  would  rise  balancing  and  poising,  and 
then  sail  off  to  the  shelter  of  the  nearest  holt, 

195 


196  Along  the  Road 

with  long  tails  jauntily  extended.  Westcott,  after 
a  silence,  added,  "  I  got  into  a  foolish  habit,  as 
a  boy,  of  always  raising  my  hat  to  a  magpie,  and 
I  can't  give  it  up.  There 's  another ! "  and  his 
hat  went  off  again. 

I  have  often  recalled  that  pleasant  scene,  and 
the  ingenuous  shame  with  which  the  Professor 
confessed  to  the  little  superstitious  reverence, 
which  he  could  not  justify  or  give  up.  Indeed, 
I  admit  that  I  never  see  magpies  myself  without 
repeating  the  old  rhyme: 

"  One  for  sorrow, 

Two  for  mirth, 
Three  for  a  death, 

Four  for  a  birth; 
Five,  you  will  shortly  be 
In  a  great  company." 

The  last  two  lines  have  a  delicious  sort  of  mys- 
tery about  them.  But  I  allow  that  I  would 
always  rather  see  two  or  four  magpies  together 
than  one  or  three. 

The  odd  thing  about  these  little  superstitions, 
and  I  suppose  we  have  most  of  us  got  some  two 
or  three  that  we  cherish,  is  that  we  regard,  as 
a  rule,  the  incidents  which  arouse  them  with  a 
sense  of  momentary  and  even  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. It  is  very  difficult  to  analyse  the  feeling. 
Do  we  regard  the  incidents  as  the  cause  of  the 
disaster  that  is  supposed  to  follow  them,  or 
merely  as  warnings  of  an  impending  misfortune 


Superstition  197 

which  we  are  powerless  to  avert?  Some  few 
superstitions  have  their  antidote.  If  one  spills 
salt,  one  may  set  all  straight  by  throwing  a 
]nnch  of  the  offending  substance  with  the  right 
hand  over  the  left  shoulder.  I  always  do  it  my- 
self! It  is  supposed,  I  fancy,  that  one's  good  and 
evil  angels  are  constantly  in  attendance — the  good 
angel  on  one's  right,  and  the  evil  angel  on  one's 
left;  and  that  by  throwing  the  salt,  the  spilling 
of  which  has  put  one  momentarily  in  the  power 
of  the  evil  influence,  with  the  right  hand  over  the 
left  shoulder,  one  flings  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  evil 
spirit.  But  as  a  rule  there  is,  in  the  case  of 
most  superstitions,  nothing  so  practical  to  be 
done.  One  can  only  sit  and  shudder,  after  break- 
ing a  mirror,  or  seeing  the  new  moon  through 
glass,  till  the  impending  stroke  falls.  Some 
superstitions,  like  walking  under  a  ladder,  I  al- 
ways set  deliberately  at  defiance;  but  I  suppose 
that  the  origin  of  that  is  simply  precautionary, 
that  one  may  not  be  struck  by  falling  tiles  ?  But 
no  doubt  the  whole  raison  d'etre  of  those  old  fears 
is  that  they  date  from  a  time  when  men  believed 
that  the  world  swarmed  with  unseen  malicious 
spirits,  who  took  advantage  of  any  lapse  to  set 
upon  the  offender.  The  odd  thing  is  that  the 
offences  seem  such  trivial  and  harmless  things! 
If  it  were  the  commission  of  some  deliberate  sin 
that  gave  evil  its  opportunity,  it  would  be  more 
intelligible;  but  the  things  which  incur  the  hos- 
tility and  invite  the  assaults  of  these  uncanny 


198  Along  the  Road 

powers  seem  to  be  so  fortuitously  and  grotesquely 
selected. 

Neither  is  it  as  if  the  only  people  who  in- 
dulged in  these  superstitious  fancies  were  anxious, 
weak-minded,  and  foolish  persons.  A  strong  vein 
of  superstition  is  often  found  in  connection  with 
highly  robust  and  reasonable  temperaments.  I 
have  a  near  relation,  one  of  the  most  healthy 
and  sensible  people  in  the  world,  who  is  the  prey 
of  many  of  these  fancies.  One  winter  evening 
he  came  into  my  room.  I  was  writing  by  the 
light  of  three  candles.  He  rushed  at  the  table 
and  carefully  extinguished  one.  I  remonstrated. 
"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  you  will  only  have  four,'' 
he  said,  "but  three — that's  most  unlucky!" 

Another  odd  point  is  that  the  most  superstitious 
people  never  think  of  investigating  the  subject 
carefully.  If,  whenever  they  violated  one  of  their 
principles,  they  carefully  noted  down  the  results, 
whether  disastrous  or  not,  they  could,  one  would 
think,  either  confirm  or  dispel  the  theory.  But 
that  they  will  not  do.  I  pointed  out  once  to  a 
votary  of  the  superstition  about  thirteen  sitting 
down  to  a  meal,  that  it  was  only  a  question  of 
percentage,  and  that  if  it  was  true  of  thirteen, 
it  must  be  still  more  true  of  fourteen  or  fifteen. 
She — it  was  a  singularly  lively  and  intelligent 
woman — said,  "  Oh !  that  is  the  tiresome  habit 
you  men  have  of  rationalising!  It  is  not  true  of 
fourteen,  and  I  have  proved  it  many  times  by 
asking  in  the  Vicar  to  dine  when  I  was  threat- 


Superstition  199 

ened  with  a  party  of  thirteen — and  nothing  has 
ever  happened." 

Two  of  the  most  curious  instances  in  history 
of  the  superstitious  temperament  are  those  of 
Archbishop  Laud  and  Dr.  Johnson.  Every  one 
remembers  Laud's  dreams,  such  as  the  one  where 
all  his  teeth  fell  out  except  one,  which  he  "  had 
much  ado  to  hold  in  its  place  with  both  hands," 
and  how  he  prayed  it  might  portend  no  evil. 
That  is  a  good  instance  of  confusing  the  cause 
and  the  sign.  Either  the  dream  caused  the  evil, 
in  which  case  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
to  wait  for  the  sequel;  or  else  it  was  a  kindly 
and  a  timely  warning.  But  to  pray  that  it  might 
not  portend  evil  shows  a  curious  confusion  of 
mind.  Laud,  too,  was  constantly  on  the  lookout 
for  warnings  and  prognostications  in  psalm  and 
lesson ;  all  of  which  things  show  that  in  spite  of 
his  actiWty  and  decisiveness  and  his  disregard  of 
others'  feelings,  he  was  of  a  nervous  and  anxious 
temperament.  With  Dr.  Johnson  the  thing  is  not 
so  strange,  because  underneath  his  robust  hu- 
mour and  his  supreme  common-sense  there  lay  a 
(lark  vein  of  hypochondria.  WTio  can  forget  his 
anxious  care  to  go  out  of  doors  with  his  right 
loot  first,  his  touching  of  posts,  his  murmured 
I)rayers  and  ejaculations? 

Of  all  the  old  superstitious  stories,  I  think  one 
of  the  most  interesting  is  that  told  by  Cicero, 
because  it  not  only  illustrates  the  habit  of  mind, 
but   throws   a   curious   sidelight   upon   the   pro- 


200  Along  the  Road 

nunciation  of  Latin.  He  was  at  Brundisium,  I 
think,  about  to  start  by  sea  for  Greece.  A  vendor 
came  along  the  quay,  crying  Caunean  figs  for 
sale.  **  Cauneas !  Cauneas !  "  Of  course,  said 
Cicero,  I  decided  at  once  not  to  go,  and  took 
measures  accordingly.  The  fact  is  that  Cauneas 
was  the  usual  pronunciation — thus  much  is  clear 
— of  the  Latin  words.  Gave  ne  eas  ("  Mind  you 
don't  go").  But  the  odd  thing  is  that  it  does 
not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  Cicero  to  warn  his 
fellow-passengers  of  the  prognostication.  He  only 
considered  it  as  a  sign  which  he  had  been  fortu- 
nate enough  to  be  able  to  interpret.  And  this  is 
very  characteristic  of  the  general  attitude.  Pro- 
vidence is  regarded,  not  as  a  just  dispenser  of 
good  and  evil,  but  as  powerless  to  avert  a  cata- 
strophe, and  only  able  to  intimate  to  a  favoured 
few,  by  very  inadequate  means,  the  disasters  in 
store;  and  it  is  this  that  makes  the  whole  thing 
into  rather  a  degrading  business,  because  it  seems 
to  imply  that  there  is  a  whimsical  and  malicious 
spirit  behind  it  all,  that  loves  to  disappoint  and 
upset,  and  to  play  men  ugly  and  uncomfortable 
tricks,  like  Caliban  in  Setebos, 

"  Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so." 

I  suppose  that  the  spread  of  education  tends 
to  sweep  all  this  away;  but  more  of  the  old  feel- 
ing probably  lingers  in  out-of-the-way  places  and 
dark  corners  of  the  country  than  it  is  pleasant 


Superstition  201 

to  admit.  At  Cerne  Abbas,  in  Dorsetshire,  there 
is  a  great  figure,  over  200  feet,  I  think,  in  length, 
traced  in  the  turf  of  a  chalk  down,  called  the 
Man  of  Cerne.  It  represents  a  giant,  holding 
in  his  hand  a  ragged  club.  It  is  of  uncertain 
date,  but  it  is  certainly  many  years  anterior  to 
the  Roman  conquest  of  Britain.  It  is  no  doubt 
one  of  those  figures  of  which  Cjesar  speaks,  upon 
which  captives,  bound  with  osiers,  were  burned 
alive,  with  horrible  rites.  The  monks  tried  to 
consecrate  the  religious  awe  investing  the  figure 
by  rechristeuing  it  St.  Augustine,  and  explain- 
ing the  club  as  the  representation  of  a  fish,  to 
show  that  he  had  crossed  the  sea — though  why 
one  should  therefore  land  with  a  large  John  Dory 
in  one's  hand  is  not  so  clear!  But  there  is  no 
doubt  that  very  ugly  and  vile  superstitions  did 
attach  to  the  figure,  and  that  most  barbarous 
rites  were  practised  there  till  a  comparatively 
recent  date.  And  it  is  certain  that  in  remote 
jKirts  of  the  country  a  good  deal  of  the  old  black 
art  prevailed  till  very  recent  times — if,  indeed, 
it  is  altogether  dead.  One  hears  very  well- 
authenticated  stories  of  wax  figures  stuck  with 
pins  being  found  hidden  in  uncanny  places  within 
the  last  few  years.  How  is  one  to  banish  these 
dismal  traditions?  It  is  hard  to  run  them  to 
earth  at  all;  and  no  amount  of  intelligent  argu- 
ment will  prevail  over  minds  which  have  in- 
herited an  instinctive  belief  in  such  practices 
from  long  generations  of  ancestors. 


202  Along  the  Road 

But  among  educated  people  the  whole  thing  is 
on  a  difiPerent  footing.  They  regard  superstitious 
beliefs  and  practices  with  an  outspoken  amuse- 
ment, though  there  is  also  a  vague  sense  in  the 
background  that  there  may  be  something  in  it 
after  all,  and  that  it  is  better  to  be  on  the  safe 
side.  My  own  feeling  about  such  things  is  that 
the  only  rational  motive  for  avoiding  incidents, 
with  which  ill-omened  consequences  are  connected, 
is  that,  if  by  some  unhappy  coincidence  disasters 
do  follow  their  occurrence,  it  is  such  a  bad  ex- 
ample for  weak-minded  people,  whose  belief  in  the 
inauspicious  character  of  an  event  is  far  more 
surely  confirmed  by  a  single  instance  of  disaster 
following  it  than  by  a  hundred  instances  when 
no  such  disaster  occurs.  And  yet  by  avoiding 
such  incidents  one  seems  tacitly  to  concur  with 
those  that  ^^  hold  of  superstitious  vanities*" 

But  we  have  still  a  few  things  to  learn,  a  few 
steps  to  climb,  and  we  cannot  be  too  much  in 
a  hurry.  It  is  a  fault  with  benevolent  and  sen- 
sible people,  who  see  clearly  what  the  truth  is, 
to  be  impatient  if  other  people  will  not  give  up 
unreasonable  ideas  the  moment  that  they  are  told 
what  is  true.  It  is  the  old  contest  between  in- 
stinct and  reason,  and  the  victories  are  slow. 
But  just  as  the  wicked  old  baronial  strongholds, 
which  represented  so  much  that  was  tyrannical 
and  abominable,  have  now  crumbled  down  into 
picturesque  ruins,  and  make  a  goal  for  summer 
pilgrimages,  so  these  old  dark  forces  seem  to  be 


Superstition  203 

transforming  themselves  into  nothing  worse  than 
jiretty  and  silly  observances,  about  which  it  is 
difficult  to  believe,  so  harmless  and  interesting 
have  they  become,  that  men  were  ever  really 
swayed  and  moved  by  them.  There  are  such 
mysterious  and  terrible  things  in  the  world  that 
it  is  easy  enough  to  be  bewildered ;  but  there  can 
be  no  reason  why  we  should  add  to  the  burden, 
;ind  torment  ourselves  by  causeless  and  imaginary 
fears,  only  to  combat  them  by  grotesque  and 
meaningless  ceremonies. 


LETTER-WRITING 

A  HUNDRED  years  ago,  I  suppose  that  an  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  wrote  possibly  half  a  dozen 
letters  a  day,  and  perhaps  not  even  every  day. 
Nowadays,  the  correspondence  of  the  Archbishop 
needs  a  staff  of  secretaries,  and  probably  averages 
between  forty  and  fifty  letters  a  day  all  the  year 
round.  The  facility  of  communication  has  two 
sides  to  it,  and  as  my  father  used  to  say,  "  The 
penny  post  is  one  of  the  ordinances  of  man  that 
we  have  to  submit  to  for  the  Lord's  sake."  The 
result  of  all  this  multiplication  of  correspondence, 
combined  with  the  fact  that  people  move  about 
much  more,  hold  more  interviews,  and  see  more 
of  each  other,  is  that  the  old  leisurely  sort  of 
letter- writing  has,  to  a  great  extent,  gone  out. 
One  can  see  this  from  modern  biographies. 
Letters  tend  more  and  more  to  be  business  com- 
munications, and  to  deal  with  definite  points. 
In  days  when  postage  was  expensive,  and  when 
there  was  less  going  and  coming,  a  letter  was 
a  friendly  interchange  of  thought  and  news,  and 
covered  much  of  the  ground  that  is  now  covered 
by  talk.    When  Dr.  Balston  was  headmaster  of 

204 


Letter- Writing  205 

Eton,  he  used  to  say  that  leave  for  boys  to  go 
home  must  only  be  granted  if  applied  for  by  letter 
or  personally,  adding  **  A  telegram  is  a  hasty 
thing!"  That  is  the  characteristic  which  seems 
insei)arable  from  modern  civilisation — it  is  all  a 
hasty  thing.  If  one  reads  a  book  like  Stanley's 
Life  of  Aniold,  one  realises  how  much  more  of 
himself  a  busy  man  like  Arnold,  with  a  great 
school  on  his  hands  and  a  big  book  on  the  stocks, 
contrived  to  put  into  his  long  and  elaborate 
letters  than  a  public  man  can  afford  to  do  now- 
adays. There  may,  of  course,  be  leisurely  people 
in  secluded  corners  with  a  taste  for  expression, 
who  are  writing  letters  of  the  old  humours  and 
entertaining  kind,  with  a  literary  flavour  about 
them.  But  when  one  reads  such  letters  as  Lamb's 
or  Byron's  or  FitzGerald's  or  Buskin's,  one  can- 
not help  feeling  that  the  art  has  been  or  is  being, 
killed  by  the  conditions  of  modern  life.  It  is  not 
that  the  taste  for  expression  has  gone  out,  but 
what  is  written  is  written  as  a  rule  for  publica- 
tion; and  there  can  be  few  people  who  do  as 
J.  A.  Symonds  used  to  do,  when  he  wrote  a  letter 
of  the  elaborate  kind — namely,  copy  it  into  a 
notebook  with  room  for  amplification  and  anno- 
tation !  There  are,  indeed,  stories  which  prove 
what  a  trouble  letter-writing  is  to  busy  men. 
There  was  a  well-known  dignitary  of  the  Church 
whose  unanswered  letters  used  to  accumulate  in 
such  numbers  that  he  was  supposed  at  intervals 
to  fill  a  portmanteau  with  them  and  take  it  abroad 


2o6  Along  the  Road 

with  him.  Somehow  or  other  the  portmanteau 
disappeared.  It  was  darkly  hinted  that  he  had 
been  seen  with  his  own  episcopal  hands  to  tip 
it  over  the  bulwarks  of  a  steamer  into  the  sea, 
and  that  a  notice  used  afterwards  to  appear  in 
the  papers  that  his  lordship  had  unfortunately 
lost  a  bag  containing  letters,  and  would  be  glad 
if  those  of  his  correspondents  who  had  received 
no  reply  would  communicate  with  him  again. 
"  By  which  time,"  the  great  man  would  say,  with 
a  humorous  smile,  "  most  of  the  letters  in  question 
had  answered  themselves." 

I  have  myself  very  decided  theories  as  to  letter- 
writing  and  letter-answering.  Somehow  or  other 
I  contrive  to  have  a  very  large  correspondence. 
There  are  three  or  four  institutions  with  which 
I  am  connected,  which  bring  me  a  good  many 
business  communications.  Then  I  have  many 
letters  from  relations,  friends,  and  old  pupils; 
and,  lastly,  I  receive  a  great  many  letters — it 
will  hardly  be  credited  how  many — from  unknown 
people  all  over  the  world  about  my  books.  The 
result  of  it  all  is  that  so  large  a  part  of  every 
day  is  spent  in  writing  letters,  that  it  is  the 
rarest  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  find  time  to 
write  a  letter  spontaneously.  It  is  not  that  T 
dislike  writing  letters — rather  the  reverse ;  but  it 
is  so  difificult  in  any  one  day  to  get  to  the  bottom 
of  the  pile,  that  there  simply  is  no  opportunity 
to  indulge  in  leisurely  correspondence.  I  have  a 
strong  sense  of  conscience  about  answering  letters 


Letter-Writing  207 

politely.  I'erliaps  that  is  rather  too  dignified  a 
term  to  use:  but  it  is  no  more  possible  for  me 
not  to  answer  a  civil  letter  than  it  would  be 
[)ossible  for  me,  if  a  courteous  stranger  spoke  to 
me  in  a  hotel  or  a  railway  carriage,  to  turn  my 
back  and  give  no  reply.  The  letters  which  reach 
me  from  unknown  correspondents  are  decidedly 
interesting,  kind,  and  often  beautiful,  sometimes 
extremely  touching  and  pathetic;  some  writers 
tell  me  very  curious  things  about  themselves,  and 
often  give  one  a  very  surprising  picture  of  life 
and  thought;  or  they  raise  a  point,  or  ask  for 
an  explanation.  Then  one  receives  controversial 
letters  and  severe  letters;  and  occasionally  very 
impertinent  ones,  though  even  these  are  often 
obviously  dictated  by  a  good  motive.  Another 
odd  thing  is  the  number  of  people  who  ask  for 
copies  of  books.  One  would  not  write  to  a  tailor 
or  a  shoemaker  for  a  coat  or  a  pair  of  boots, 
because  one  happened  to  like  the  style  and 
appearance  of  their  wares.  But  I  suppose  that 
I)eoi)le  think  that  an  author  is  supplied  with 
any  number  of  copies  of  his  books  gratis,  and 
is  only  too  glad  to  get  them  into  circulation! 
Then  there  are  begging  letters,  and  those  I 
now  generally  harden  my  heart  about  and 
send  no  reply;  for  the  simple  reason  that  when 
I  have  investigated  the  circumstances,  I  have 
generally  found  that  the  case  has  not  been 
fairly  stated,  that  facts  have  been  concealed, 
and    that    in    more   cases    than    one    the   writer 


2o8  Along  the  Road 

makes  a  professional  income  by  his  epistolary 
labours. 

Edward  FitzGerald  used  to  hold  that  every 
letter  ought  to  be  answered  at  exactly  the  same 
length  as  it  was  written,  and  reach  down  to  the 
same  place  on  the  page.  I  do  not  at  all  feel  that, 
and  should  be  sorely  puzzled  to  carry  it  out. 
There  are  long  letters  which  need  short  answers, 
and  short  letters  demanding  long  answers;  but  I 
practically  answer  everything;  and  though  I  sup- 
pose one  has  a  right  not  to  do  so,  yet  I  should 
do  it  as  a  simple  matter  of  courtesy,  unless  it 
took  up  too  much  time. 

The  result,  however,  is  that  the  letters  which 
one  would  most  like  to  write — full  and  leisurely 
budgets  to  friends — get  pushed  into  a  corner. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  forced  to  call  in  a  short- 
hand writer  and  dictate  replies;  but  in  that  case, 
if  the  letters  are  at  all  private,  I  am  careful  to 
put  in  no  names  and  leave  out  anything  that 
could  lead  to  identification,  filling  up  the  gaps 
afterwards.  I  have  not  personally  any  sense  of 
privacy  about  letters.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned 
I  should  not  mind  any  one  reading  any  of  the 
letters  I  receive  or  write. 

The  test,  I  think,  of  a  good  letter  is  a  very 
simple  one.  If  one  seems  to  hear  the  person 
talking  as  one  reads  the  letter,  it  is  a  good  letter. 
Of  course  a  letter  can  be  good  for  other  reasons, 
because  people's  hands  do  not  always  work  as 
fast  as  their  brains.     But  if  the  letter  gives  one 


Letter-Writing  209 

a  sense  of  the  writer's  personalitv,  that  is  the 
first  test.  Some  people,  whose  minds  are  active 
and  whose  conversation  is  pungent,  write  very 
uninteresting  letters;  and  vice  versa.  Some  of 
the  most  entertaining  letters  I  ever  read  were 
from  an  old  Scotch  bailiff,  who  used  to  put  the 
most  delightful  humorous  touches  into  everything 
he  wrote;  but  in  talk  he  was  shy  and  inarticulate. 
And  there  are  some  people  who  have  the  art  of 
putting  some  characteristic  touch  into  the  briefest 
business  note. 

As  a  rule,  I  think  people  write  very  readable 
hands,  though  elegant  handwriting  is  gone  out. 
But  one  of  the  oddest  things  is  that  many  people 
who  write  legibly  enough  will  put  a  most  illegible 
scrawl  for  the  address,  and  a  still  more  un- 
decipherable hieroglyphic  for  the  signature.  I 
have  been  reduced  to  copying  a  name,  stroke  by 
stroke,  on  an  envelope,  and  I  have  sometimes 
wished  to  cut  a  signature  out  and  gum  it  on; 
but  that  has  an  air  of  discourtesy.  There  is  one 
man,  a  secretary  of  an  important  institution, 
whose  signature  I  have  kept  to  show  people.  I 
have  never  known  two  people  decipher  it  alike, 
and  never  any  one  at  all  who  has  come  near  to 
the  correct  interpretation.  Again,  one  of  the 
oddest  facts  is  that  I  have  more  than  once  had 
letters  from  unknown  women  who  have  signed 
simply  Christian  name  and  surname;  there  has 
been  nothing  in  the  letter  to  indicate  whether 
they  were  married  or  unmarried,  and  yet  they 
14 


210  Along  the  Road 

have  written  to  me  to  remonstrate  with  me  for 
not  addressing  them  correctly.  But  I  am  told 
that  on  the  whole  it  is  better  to  address  such 
letters  as  Mrs.  rather  than  as  Miss. 

I  know  authors  who  make  it  a  rule  never  to 
answer  a  letter  from  an  unknown  correspondent. 
But  that  seems  to  me  inhuman.  What  can  be 
more  agreeable  to  an  author,  who  writes  for  peo- 
ple in  general,  than  to  find  that  far-off  readers 
have  been  interested,  amused,  or  touched  by  what 
he  has  written?  And  my  own  experience  has 
been  that  when  I  have  been  really  moved  by  a 
book,  and  have  felt  it  an  act  of  simple  gratitude 
to  write  to  the  author,  known  or  unknown,  I 
have  always,  or  nearly  always,  received  a  kindly 
and  friendly  reply.  In  this  mysterious  and  be- 
wildering world,  where  so  much  is  dark  and  sad, 
it  seems  to  me  intolerable  not  to  return  a  smile 
by  a  smile,  a  word  by  a  word;  not  to  grasp  a 
kind  hand  held  out,  but  to  put  one's  own  hands 
behind  one's  back.  To  call  or  to  think  such  com- 
munications intrusive  or  impertinent  seems  to 
me  to  be  like  the  man  in  the  shipwreck  who  w^ould 
not  accept  a  share  in  a  floating  spar  proffered 
him  by  another  passenger  because  he  had  not 
been  formally  introduced  to  him.  Of  course,  if 
an  author  found  that  his  work  was  being  seri- 
ously hampered  by  having  to  answer  letters  of 
a  trivial  kind  from  innumerable  correspondents, 
he  could  abstain  from  doing  so,  because  he  would 
rightly  feel  that  he  was  doing  his  best  to  help 


Letter-Writing  21 1 

things  along  by  his  deliberate  writings,  and  that, 
his  answer  to  inquirers  lay  there.  Yet,  even  if 
I  were  in  such  a  position,  I  should  send  a  printed 
form  of  acknowledgment,  unless  such  a  course 
made  serious  inroads  on  my  income. 

But  I  do  not  think  that  our  Anglo-Saxon  race 
is  likely  to  err  on  the  side  of  effusiveness.  One 
may  be  fairly  certain  that  if  one  hears  from  an 
unknown  person,  that  person  is  for  some  reason 
or  other  in  earnest.  I  suppose  i)ossibly  that  a 
really  famous  or  eminent  author  might  be  pestered 
by  people  who  only  desired  to  secure  his  auto- 
graphs. For  I  well  recollect  staying  with  a 
famous  public  man,  and  how  one  evening  after 
dinner  his  secretary  came  in,  said  with  a  smile 
that  the  autographs  had  run  out,  and  produced 
a  packet  of  half-sheets  of  paper.  The  great  man, 
with  a  tired  smile  and  an  apology,  produced  a 
stylograph  and  signed  his  name  again  and  again. 
"  At  the  top  of  the  paper,  you  observe,"  he  said 
to  me,  "so  that  nothing  can  be  written  above  it; 
and  then  only  when  people  send  an  addressed 
and  stami)ed  envelope."  That  sort  of  thing,  T 
confess,  bewilders  me;  it  seems  to  me  to  be  human 
veneration  reduced  to  its  barest  formula,  its  least 
common  multiple. 

What  I  rather  feel  on  the  whole  subject  of 
letters  is  that  we  tend,  by  inherited  instinct,  I 
expect,  to  look  upon  letters  as  more  important 
and  more  costly  things  than  they  really  are. 
There   are   many   people   who   practically   never 


212;  Along  the  Road 

write  to  old  comrades  and  friends,  because  tliey 
have  a  feeling  that  if  they  write  at  all  they  must 
write  at  length.  But  that  is  a  great  mistake; 
and  by  this  indolent  reticence  many  good  ties  are 
broken.  The  point  is  the  letter,  not  the  length 
or  literary  quality  of  the  letter.  And  it  is  pitiful 
to  think  that  a  few  words  scribbled  on  a  scrap 
of  paper  three  or  four  times  in  a  year  might 
save  many  a  good  friendship,  which  perishes  list- 
lessly from  lack  of  nutriment. 


VULGARITY 

T  HAVE  sometimes  wondered  whether  there  is,  or 
ever  has  been,  a  man  or  a  woman  in  the  world 
who  knew  and  recognised  himself  or  herself  to 
be  vulgar.^  I  suppose  the  truth  is  that,  with  a 
rather  vague  term  like  vulgar,  every  one's  inner 
definition  of  the  word  is  framed  so  as  somehow 
to  exclude  himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  doubt 
if  any  but  morbid  peo])le  ever  admit  even  to 
themselves  that  they  can  be  frankly  classified 
under  some  one  evil  designation.  We  do  not 
mind  confessing  in  a  general  way  that  we  are 
sinners;  but  we  prefer  not  to  have  our  sins 
particularised  by  other  people.  A  malicious  man 
merely  thinks  that  he  is  quick  to  detect  the  low 
and  selfish  motives  by  which  most  of  his  acquaint- 
iiices  are  actuated.  The  rude  person  prides  him- 
self upon  his  candour.  The  drunkard  thinks  that 
a  certain  amount  of  alcohol  is  agreeable  to  him 
:i!id  innocuous,  and  that  he  could  always  stop 
consuming  it  if  he  chose.  Rut  imagine  the 
ignominious  tragedy  of  the  moment  if  a  man  in 
the  solitude  of  his  own  room  should  smite  his 
hand  upon  his  forehead  and  say,  "  I  am  a  snob, 
213 


214  Along  the  Road 

a  vulgar  snob."  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  most 
people  would  far  more  resent  the  epithet  vulgar 
being  unhesitatingly  applied  to  them  by  others 
than  they  would  resent  being  labelled  under 
decidedly  graver  moral  offences.  The  code  of 
honour,  whatever  its  origin,  is  much  more  in- 
stinctive than  the  Christian  code,  and  I  fear  there 
is  no  doubt  that  many  men  feel  that  the  code  of 
honour  is  their  own  affair,  but  that  unpleasant 
moral  failings  are,  to  speak  plainly,  the  affair  of 
God.  A  man  convicted  of  ^Tilgarity  or  of  snob- 
bishness would  not  readily  excuse  himself  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  made  so,  though  that  con- 
solation is  often  self-applied  to  even  grosser 
tendencies. 

The  word  vulgarity  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  some- 
what difticult  word  to  define,  because  it  is  applied 
on  the  one  hand  to  a  superficial  set  of  qualities, 
matters  of  breeding  and  education,  questions  of 
demeanour  and  dress  and  pronunciation;  and  on 
the  other  hand,  it  covers  some  very  grave  and 
disagreeable  faults  indeed,  which  no  one  would 
with  equanimity  admit.  In  its  ordinary  sense 
the  word  is  so  much  a  question  of  comparison 
that  no  one  would  ever  be  likely  to  apply  it  to 
himself,  because  he  would  always  have  the  com- 
fort of  thinking  that  there  were  persons  below 
him  in  the  social  scale,  to  whom  the  term  would 
be  more  truly  applicable.  It  is,  for  instance, 
commonly  applied  to  things  which  are  after  all 
merelv  matters  of  social  ritual  and  observance. 


Vulgarity  215 

We  oiipjht,  I  suppose,  in  these  democratic  days, 
to  write  and  speak  as  if  there  were  no  such  things 
as  social  distinctions.  One  man  is  just  as  good 
as  another — indeed,  a  shade  better.  But  the  word 
vulgarity  is  applied  by  a  man  with  equal  force 
both  to  i)eople  whom  he  sees  to  have  more  advan- 
tages than  himself  in  the  way  of  money  and 
society,  as  well  as  to  people  whom  he  considers 
to  have  fewer  advantages  than  himself.  In  the 
first  case  it  means  pretentious,  and  in  the  second 
it  means  common.  I  remember  once  being  told 
by  a  lady  who  did  a  great  deal  of  philanthropic 
work  that  the  most  curious  etiquette  prevailed 
in  some  of  the  houses  she  used  to  visit  about 
behaviour  at  meals.  At  one  house,  in  drinking 
tea,  the  spoon  liad  to  be  put  in  the  cup  and 
held  firmly  against  the  side  of  it  with  the  fore- 
finger, while  the  little  finger  had  to  be  held  out 
away  from  the  cup  with  an  air  of  graceful  de- 
tachment. At  another  house,  when  you  had  drunk 
all  the  tea  you  cared  to  drink,  you  turned  your 
cup  upside  down  in  the  saucer.  The  two  house- 
holds appeared  to  be  of  exactly  the  same  social 
standing;  but  my  friend  found  out  that  the  spoon- 
holders  considered  the  inversion  of  the  cup  to  be 
^iilgar,  while  the  inverters  thought  spoon-holding 
to  l)e  pretentious.  The  odd  thing  is  that  one 
should  be  amused  by  this,  and  think  both  prac- 
tices alike  absurd,  when  one  is  oneself  just  as 
exacting  in  the  use  of  the  knife.  I  should  con- 
sider that  it  would  be  a  sign  of  inferior  breeding 


2i6  Along  the  Road 

for  a  man  to  shovel  green  peas  into  his  mouth 
with  a  knife,  however  convenient;  and  I  suppose 
that  a  man  who  naturally  used  his  knife  so  would 
consider  my  prodding  and  dawdling  with  a  fork 
under  the  same  circumstances  to  be  simply 
affectation. 

But  the  vulgarity,  if  it  can  be  called  vulgarity, 
which  attaches  to  the  ritual  of  social  observance 
is  a  very  superficial  and  harmless  thing.  It  is 
merely,  to  employ  ecclesiastical  terms,  a  question 
of  a  different  use,  like  the  Sarum  Use  and  the 
Bangor  Use.  It  is  just  a  symbol  of  a  different 
tradition,  and  is  practically  indicative  of  nothing 
but  wealth  and  social  standing. 

But  there  is  a  vulgarity  which  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent affair,  a  rank  and  deep-seated  quality  of 
soul.  This  vulgarity  is  an  ugly  pretentiousness, 
an  attempt  to  prove  and  assert  superiority.  Even 
here  there  are  two  kinds  of  pretentiousness.  No 
one  thinks  a  child  vulgar  if  he  has  been  tipped 
a  half-sovereign,  and  goes  about  confiding  the 
news  of  his  astounding  accession  of  fortune  to 
every  one  in  the  house.  And  it  may  be  unrefined, 
but  it  is  not  necessarily  vulgar,  when  a  man  is 
so  frankly  delighted  with  his  own  good  fortune, 
with  his  house,  his  wife,  his  man-servant  and  his 
maid-servant,  his  ox  and  his  ass,  that  he  cannot 
forbear  speaking  of  such  things  in  a  good- 
humoured  and  joyful  spirit,  and  showing  them 
off  to  others.  That  may  become  very  tiresome, 
because  it  is  tiresome  to  be  continually  called 


Vulgarity  217 

upon  to  admire  tilings,  especially  if  you  do  not 
really  admire  them.  But  the  mischief  comes  in 
if  the  possessor  of  these  fine  things  is  pleased 
with  them  not  so  much  because  he  enjoys  them, 
as  because  other  people  are  not  so  fortunate. 
Some  of  the  most  innately  vulgar  people  I  have 
known  have  been  people  of  irreproachable  cour- 
tesy and  demeanour ;  but  one  gradually  perceives 
that  their  standard  is  all  wrong,  that  they  put 
the  wrong  values  on  people,  that  they  do  not 
like  men  and  women  because  they  are  likeable 
or  interesting,  but  because  they  are  important. 
The  man  who  keeps  one  kind  of  geniality  for  a 
(oiintess  and  another  for  a  farmer's  wife  is  very 
hard  to  respect.  There  is  no  sort  of  reason  why 
;i  man  should  migrate  from  one  class  to  another. 
If  he  is  born  an  earl,  there  is  no  harm  in  his 
consorting  with  earls;  but  he  must  not  treat  an 
offensive  earl  with  courtesy,  and  an  inoffensive 
farmer  with  discourtesy.  There  is  a  pleasant  old 
story  of  a  duke  who  got  into  a  railway  compart- 
ment occupied  by  another  duke  and  a  commercial 
traveller.  He  talked  affably  with  both.  When 
he  got  out,  the  commercial  traveller,  impressed 
by  the  respect  with  which  the  stranger  was  re- 
ceived at  the  station,  inquired  of  one  of  the 
porters  who  he  was,  and  on  hearing  the  fact, 
said  genially  to  the  other  duke,  "  Now,  that 's 
what  I  call  a  gentleman!  To  think  of  his  sitting 
here,  hobnobbing  with  a  couple  of  snobs  like  you 
and  me."    One  only  wishes  that  one  could  have 


2i8  Along  the  Road 

lieai'd  his  further  reflections  when  his  other  fel- 
low-traveller left  him,  and  he  discovered  his 
identity  as  well. 

Vulgarity  seems  to  lie  not  so  much  in  a  certain 
kind  of  action  as  in  the  motive  that  underlies 
the  action ;  not  so  much  in  what  you  do  and  say, 
but  in  how  you  do  it  and  say  it.  If  you  have 
a  famous  and  distinguished  relative,  it  is  vulgar 
to  tell  stories  about  him,  if  your  object  is  to 
glorify  yourself;  it  is  not  in  the  least  vulgar  to 
tell  stories  about  him  if  they  are  designed  to  be 
and  are  obviously  interesting  to  your  company. 
I  have  seen  the  thing  done  in  both  ways.  May 
I  tell  a  curious  little  adventure  which  happened 
to  myself?  Some  years  ago  I  sat  next  a  stranger 
at  a  hotel  table-d'hote,  who  paraded  rather  need- 
lessly his  acquaintance  with  well-known  ecclesi- 
astics. He  made  an  erroneous  statement  about 
Lambeth,  and  appeared  to  be  going  on  to  criticise 
its  recent  occupants.  I  thought  he  might  regret 
having  committed  himself,  and  demurred  to  his 
statement.  He  looked  at  me,  and  said  rather 
impertinently,  "  May  I  ask  if  you  know  Lam- 
beth ?  "  *"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  lived  there  for  a  good 
many  years."  After  which  he  treated  me  with 
much  increased  civility.  It  was  this  latter  trait 
Avhich  appears  to  me  to  have  been  vulgar,  but 
it  is  quite  possible  that  he  considered  me  vulgar 
too  for  obtruding  my  experience. 

The  worst  of  vulgarity  is  that  it  is  so  insidious 
a  fault;  and  I  fear  it  is  true  that  the  more  apt 


Vulgarity  219 

one  is  to  detect  ^1llgarity  in  other  people,  the 
more  likelj  it  is  that  one  sufifers  from  the  fault 
oneself.  The  root  of  it  is  a  false  sense  of  dignity 
and  a  settled  complacency.  Sometimes,  as  I  have 
said,  that  complacency  is  so  strong  and  deep  that 
the  vulgarity  of  it  all  is  difficult  to  detect,  because 
the  offender  is  so  conscious  of  his  superiority  that 
he  does  not  even  think  it  worth  while  to  assert 
it.  There  is  a  delightful  old  picture  in  Punch  of 
two  intensely  feeble,  brainless,  and  chinless  peers, 
standing  together  at  a  reception  in  some  big 
house.  In  the  background,  dimly  outlined,  looms 
the  mighty  form  of  Tennyson.  One  says  to  the 
other,  "  By  the  way,  I  hear  that  What  ^s-his-name, 
that  poet  feller,  is  going  to  become  one  of  us." 
When  complacency  reaches  this  stage,  it  is  on 
so  colossal  a  scale  as  to  be  almost  magnificent, 
though  when  Tennyson  was  made  a  peer  there 
were,  no  doubt,  a  good  many  people  who  con- 
sidered it  an  honour  bestowed  on  literature  rather 
than  an  honour  conferred  upon  the  peerage. 

Like  all  secret  faults,  vulgarity  is  difficult  to 
detect;  but  a  man  may  suspect  that  he  is  in 
danger,  if  he  finds  himself  inclined  to  compare 
himself  favourably  with  other  people,  and  if  he 
is  inclined  to  take  credit  to  himself  rather  than 
to  feel  gratitude  for  any  success  he  may  have 
achieved.  Tlie  fault  may  exist  with  high  genius. 
It  can  hardly  be  denied  that  Byron  was  vulgar, 
and  that  Napoleon  was  vulgar.  On  the  other 
hand.  Nelson   and  Wordsworth,  both  of  whom 


220  Along  the  Road 

were  fully  conscious  of  their  high  gifts,  had  not 
the  least  touch  of  it.  They  were  proud,  while 
Byron  and  Napoleon  were  vain;  and  vanity  is 
almost  certain  to  display  itself  in  vulgarity.  The 
essence  of  vulgarity  is  not  so  much  to  succeed  as 
to  wish  to  be  known  to  succeed ;  not  to  be  better 
than  others,  but  to  wish  to  seem  better  than 
others;  not  to  possess  greatness,  but  to  wish  to 
be  envied  for  your  greatness.  And  it  may  be  said 
that  any  man  who  cares  more  about  his  work 
than  about  himself  cannot  possibly  be  vulgar; 
while  a  man  who  cares  about  his  work  as  giv- 
ing a  pedestal  for  his  own  statue  is  almost 
inevitably  so. 


SINCERITY 

Sincerity  is  one  of  the  virtues  which  we  all 
adiiiire  when  we  see  it,  but  which  is  very  hard 
to  practise  deliberately,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  it  disappears,  like  humility,  the  moment 
that  it  becomes  self-conscious.  Uriah  Heep,  in 
David  Copperfield,  was  for  ever  asserting  his 
humility;  but  as  soon  as  a  man  becomes  proud 
of  being  so  humble,  he  is  humble  no  longer. 
Similarly,  the  man  who  is  preoccupied  with  his 
own  sincerity,  is  well  on  his  way  to  become  in- 
sincere, because  his  sincerity  has  become  a  pose. 
The  essence  of  sinceritj'  is  simplicity,  and  sim- 
plicity conscious  of  itself  is  one  of  the  most  com- 
plicated things  in  the  world.  The  old  definition 
of  sincere  used  to  be  sine  cera,  "  without  wax," 
and  it  was  supposed  to  be  a  metaphor  from  honey 
strained  off  pure  and  translucent  from  the  comb. 
A  pretty,  though  wholly  fanciful,  etymology;  but 
the  idea  is  a  true  one — the  rich,  authentic,  crys- 
talline, fragrant  substance  of  the  soul,  without 
any  cloudy  or  clogging  intermixture;  it  would 
be  simple  enough  if  all  souls  were  like  that! 
But  the  difficulty  for  most  of  us  is  that  we  are 

221 


222  Along  the  Road 

painfully  conscious  of  a  duality,  even  a  multi- 
plicity, of  elements,  a  sad  jumble  of  qualities, 
even  of  opposite  qualities,  stored  in  our  spirits, 
like  the  contents  of  some  ancient  lumber-room. 
What  is  the  practical  issue  of  it  all?  If  we  want 
to  be  sincere — and  it  is.  a  quality  that  we  all 
admire  and  most  of  us  desire — does  it  mean  that 
we  are  to  exhibit  all  our  wares?  If  we  are  irri- 
table, mean,  jealous,  selfish,  is  it  sincere  to  parade 
these  things,  or  at  all  events  to  make  no  effort 
to  conceal  them?  Are  we  bound  to  say,  like  the 
Master  of  Ballantrae,  in  words  which  contain 
perhaps  the  sincerest  confession  of  self  ever  put 
in  the  mouth  of  a  character  in  fiction,  "  I  am 
a  pretty  bad  fellow  at  bottom  "?  Is  it  hypocrisy 
to  attempt  to  hide  our  faults?  Sometimes  that 
is  the  most  eft'ectual  way  of  getting  rid  of  them. 
It  would  be  absurd  to  say  that  if  a  man  felt 
irritable,  he  was  hypocritical  if  he  did  not  show 
it,  or  that  if  he  was  conscious  of  being  of  a 
jealous  disposition,  he  was  bound  to  approve  and 
applaud  instances  of  jealous  behaviour  in  other 
people,  for  the  sake  of  being  consistent.  The 
curious  thing  about  English  people  is  that  they 
tend,  if  anything,  to  be  hypocritical  about  their 
virtues  rather  than  about  their  faults.  I  know 
several  people  who  are  ashamed  of  appearing  to 
be  as  generous  and  as  tender-hearted  as  they 
really  are.  We  are  naturally  an  emotional  and 
a  sentimental  nation,  and  we  are  desperately 
afraid    of    betraying    it.     We    like    sentimental 


Sincerity  223 

books  and  plays  and  sermons,  but  we  are  very 
hard  on  sentimental  talk.  We  like  things  that 
make  us  cry,  better  than  things  that  make  us 
langh.  John  Bull,  for  all  his  top-boots  and  his 
ample  waistcoat,  is  a  very  tender-hearted  old 
fellow,  and  heartily  dislikes  to  be  thought  so. 
We  despise  other  nations  for  their  courtesy  and 
excitability,  and  think  their  display  of  emotion 
generally  to  be  ridiculous  and  affected.  Yet  we 
ourselves  are  the  victims  of  a  deep-seated  habit 
of  posing.  We  pretend  to  be  bluff  and  gruff,  when 
we  are  really  only  shy  and  amiable.  I  had  an 
old  friend  once  who  carried  this  to  an  almost 
grotesque  degree.  He  was  a  friendly,  rather  soft- 
hearted man,  but  he  got  it  into  his  head,  early 
in  life,  that  it  was  manly  to  be  rough;  he  stamped 
about  the  house  in  enormous  boots,  and  spoke 
what  he  called  his  mind  on  all  occasions,  though 
in  reality  he  was  only  saying  the  sort  of  things 
that  he  imagined  were  appropriate  to  a  man  of 
the  tj'pe  that  he  had  adopted.  I  went  with  him 
once  to  call  on  a  distinguished  lady.  He  was 
horribly  shy,  and  showed  it  by  sitting  down  on 
a  chair  the  reverse  way,  holding  the  back  between 
his  knees,  and  agitating  it  to  and  fro  as  if  he 
were  riding  a  rocking-horse,  while  he  criticised 
the  luxury  of  the  upper  classes  in  a  highly  offen- 
sive way.  He  desired  to  give  the  impression  of 
being  totally  unembarrassed,  but  wholly  in  vain, 
because  his  behaviour  was  merely  supposed  to 
be  the  result  of  an  almost  frenzied  nervousness; 


224  Along  the  Road 

and,  after  all,  it  is  not  moral  cowardice  to  be 
decorously  respectful  at  the  right  time  and  place. 

That  is  really  the  worst  of  the  situation,  that 
we  do,  in  England,  too  often  confuse  roughness 
with  sincerity,  and  offensiveness  with  candour; 
while  in  reality  the  essence  of  sincerity  is  that 
we  should  mean  what  we  say,  not  that  we  should 
say  all  that  we  think.  There  is  a  story  of  Tenny- 
son standing  by  the  tea-table,  while  his  wife  and 
a  distinguished  authoress  were  exchanging  some 
meaningless  but  harmless  compliments,  and  gaz- 
ing down  upon  them  in  silence,  till  a  pause 
occurred,  when  he  said  in  his  most  portentous 
tones,  "  What  liars  you  women  are !  '^  That  was 
not  sincerity,  but  something  like  brutality;  for 
after  all  it  is  no  more  insincere  to  conceal  your 
thoughts  than  it  is  insincere  to  wear  clothes. 

We  tend  to  limit  the  application  of  the  word 
insincere  almost  wholly  to  matters  of  conversa- 
tion, and  curiously  enough  we  limit  it  further 
almost  entirely  to  the  people  who  say  pleasant 
and  agreeable  things.  If  a  man  tells  an  un- 
pleasant truth,  we  say  that  he  is  frank;  if  he 
tells  a  pleasant  truth,  we  say  that  he  flatters. 
The  best  combination  of  urbanity  and  directness 
I  know  was  afforded  by  an  old  friend  of  mine 
who  took  a  lady  in  to  dinner,  and  asked  her  many 
questions  about  herself  and  her  relations  in  a 
way  which  showed  he  was  intimately  acquainted 
with  her  performances  and  family  traditions.  She 
said  at  last  smilingly,  "  Well,  it  is  a  pleasant 


Sincerity  225 

surprise  to  find  oneself  so  famous !     How  did  you 

know  all  this,  Mr. ? "     An  insincere  man 

would  have  bowed,  and  murmured  that  some 
l>eople  were  public  property,  and  so  forth.  But 
my  friend,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  replied,  "  I 
asked." 

No  one  would,  however,  consider  it  to  be  in- 
sincere not  to  talk  about  anything  which  hap- 
I>ened  to  be  in  his  mind  at  the  time.  The  difficulty 
rather  is  with  people  of  genial  and  sympathetic 
temperament,  who  are  apt  in  the  excitement  of 
the  moment  to  say  more  than  they  mean,  and  to 
seem  to  undertake  more  than  they  can  carry  out. 
There  are  some  people  to  whom  it  is  absolutely 
natural  to  wish  instinctively  to  stand  well  with 
the  people  in  whose  company  they  find  themselves, 
and  whose  egotism  takes  the  form  not  of  talking 
about  themselves,  but  of  desiring  themselves  to 
be  felt  and  appreciated,  and  to  establish  a  per- 
sonal relation  with  the  particular  people  they 
happen  to  be  thrown  with.  Some  people  at  first 
sight  seem  to  be  extremely  sympathetic,  and  the 
interest  they  feel  may  be  temporary,  but  it  is 
often  at  the  moment  quite  genuine.  The  disap- 
pointment comes  afterwards,  when  one  finds  that 
they  have  forgotten  all  about  one,  and  make  no 
attempt  to  follow  up  the  relations  which  seemed 
to  be  happily  established.  Personally,  I  am  glad 
of  civility  and  interest  and  sympathy  on  any 
terms,  and  I  do  not  claim  an  indefinite  continu- 
ance of  such  favours.    One  should  take  exactly 

IS 


226  Along  the  Road 

what  people  are  prepared  to  give,  and  not  demand 
more.  But  it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  know  what 
people  who  suffer  from  a  plenitude  of  superficial 
sympathy  ought  to  do.  It  is  difficult  to  advise 
them  to  cultivate  an  indifferent  and  unsym- 
pathetic attitude.  They  must,  however,  expect 
to  have  to  pay  for  the  pleasure  they  both  give 
and  receive;  they  must  be  prepared  to  meet 
further  claims,  and  to  be  criticised  as  insincere 
if  they  cannot  meet  them.  "  Too  sweet  to  be 
wholesome,"  as  an  old  Scotch  keeper  said  to 
me  of  a  lady  whose  adjectives  outran  her  emo- 
tions. Yet  the  sincerity  or  the  insincerity  of 
such  behaviour  does  greatly  depend  upon  the 
motive  that  lies  behind  it.  !lf  there  is  in  reserve 
a  genuine  good-will,  and  a  sincere  instinct  for 
desiring  to  see  and  to  make  others  happy,  the 
unfavourable  criticism  is  rarely  made.  I  know 
more  than  one  public  man  who  has  the  blessed 
knack  of  making  the  most  insignificant  person 
in  his  company  feel  that  he  is  the  object  of  his 
sincere  and  active  benevolence;  and  such  persons 
are  no  more  blamed  for  not  prolonging  their 
attentions  in  absence,  than  the  sun  is  blamed  for 
not  shining  at  the  bottom  of  a  coal-pit.  One  feels 
that  the  sun  is  in  his  place,  and  can  be  depended 
upon  to  shine  at  the  right  season  and  under  the 
right  conditions.  JBut  the  people  who  do  get 
labelled  insincere  are  those  whose  aim  is  not  the 
happiness  of  other  people,  but  their  own  comfort; 
who  are  sympathetic  because  they  want  to  give 


Sincerity  227 

an  irapression  of  sympathy  and  kinrlness  for  their 
own  satisfaction.  And  these  are  the  hardest  of 
all  to  enlighten,  because  they  do  not  recognise  that 
there  is  anything  amiss,  or  perceive  tliat  their 
action  is  based  on  selfishness;  and  even  if  they 
do  realise  it,  it  is  very  hard  for  them  to  act  other- 
wise, because  one  becomes  unselfish  through  im- 
pulse and  not  through  argument.  One  can  cure 
oneself  of  a  fault  by  discipline,  but  no  amount  of 
discipline  will  create  a  generous  virtue. 

Sometimes  the  world  is  startled  by  the  revela- 
tion of  the  private  wrong-doing  of  men  of  great 
outward  respectability;  of  course  if  that  wrong- 
doing is  deliberate,  and  the  outward  pretence  of 
virtue  a  mere  mask  donned  for  convenience,  there 
is  nothing  to  be  said ;  that  is  the  hypocrisy  of 
the  Pharisees.  But  a  man  who  yields  to  evil  from 
weakness  does  not  necessarily  desire  to  sin,  and 
still  less  does  he  wish  others  to  do  so;  a  man 
who  does  wrong  may  be  most  sincerely  on  the 
side  of  the  right,  and  even  more  intensely  than 
othei's,  if,  as  may  well  be  the  case,  he  realises 
ihe  misery  of  his  sin.  Sincerity  does  not  neces- 
itate  that  every  one  should  make  public  con- 
fession of  everything,  or  that  no  one  should  ever 
dare  to  recommend  a  virtue  which  he  cannot 
always  practise.  If  we  all  lowered  our  pro- 
claimed standard  to  the  level  of  our  private  prac- 
tice, we  should  merely  countenance  and  encourage 
evil.  Of  course  the  truest  sincerity  is  to  amend 
our  faults,  and  not  to  preach  anything  which  we 


228  Along  the  Road 

do  not  honestly  try  to  practise.  And  even  in 
the  worst  cases  of  all,  it  is  in  itself  a  comfort 
to  recognise  that,  as  an  old  writer  says,  hypocrisy 
is,  after  all,  the  homage  paid  by  vice  to  virtue. 

What  really  makes  all  the  difference  is  a  deep- 
seated  and  conscious  singleness  of  aim.  A  man 
may  have  many  and  patent  faults.  He  may  act 
inconsistently  and  even  unworthily  on  occasions, 
and  yet  may  be  perfectly  sincere,  if  he  is  not 
trying  to  fight  on  both  sides  in  the  battle.  Fail- 
ure matters  little;  it  is  the  intention  that  shines 
through.  The  man  who  cannot  be  sincere  is  the 
man  who  gets  all  the  pleasure  that  he  safely  can 
out  of  evil,  and  professes  a  belief  in  what  is  good, 
for  the  sake  of  the  convenience  it  brings  him. 

And  therefore,  as  I  say,  sincerity  is  a  virtue 
that  can  hardly  be  directly  cultivated.  It  is 
rather  like  a  flower  which  follows  naturally  and 
in  due  course,  if  the  right  seed  be  sown. 


RESOLUTIONS 

In  the  year  1781,  when  he  had  somewhat  more 
than  three  years  of  life  remaining  to  him,  Dr. 
Johnson  wrote  in  one  of  his  little  memorandum 
books : 

August  9,  3  P.M.,  setat.  72,  in  the  summer-house  at 
Streatham. 

After  innumerable  resolutions  formed  and  neglected, 
I  have  retired  hither  to  plan  a  life  of  greater  diligence, 
in  hope  that  I  may  yet  be  useful,  and  be  daily  better 
prepared  to  appear  before  my  Creator  and  my  Judge, 
from  whose  infinite  mercy  I  humbly  call  for  assistance 
and  support. 

My  purpose  is  to  pass  eight  hours  of  every  day  in 
some  serious  employment. 

Having  prayed,  I  purpose  to  employ  the  next  six 
weeks  upon  the  Italian  language  for  my  settled  study. 

There  is  something,  T  always  feel,  very  gallant 
and  adventurous  about  this.  The  old  lion  was 
near  his  end;  he  was  suffering  from  a  painful 
complication  of  disorders;  the  thought  of  death 
was,  as  it  always  had  been,  a  grievous  and  over- 
shadowing dread  to  him;  and  yet  here  is  the  old 
man  on  his  knees,  planning  a  new  and  practical 
229 


230  Along  the  Road 

scheme  of  life,  including  eight  hours  a  day  of 
serious  employment  and  six  weeks  devoted  to  the 
study  of  Italian!  There  is  no  evidence  that  the 
scheme  was  ever  carried  out;  he  wrote  nothing 
after  this  date  except  a  refutation  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  Ossianic  poems ;  and  there  is  no  reason 
to  think  that  he  applied  himself  to  Dante ;  indeed, 
an  extreme  dislike  of  all  regular  employment  had 
been  from  the  earliest  days  one  of  Johnson's  most 
besetting  infirmities ;  yet  there  is  something  splen- 
did in  the  hopefulness,  the  candour,  the  humility 
of  the  whole  entry.  No  one  ever  made  and  broke 
so  many  vows  as  Dr.  Johnson,  and  yet  it  never 
occurs  to  one  to  doubt  his  rugged  sincerity,  his 
fervent  aspirations  after  perfection.  No  one  ever 
abased  himself  so  profoundly  before  God,  or 
lamented  his  faults  so  vehemently,  or  judged  his 
own  performances  so  severely ;  and  yet  there  was 
nothing  sentimental  about  his  piety;  he  neither 
cringed  nor  crawled  before  his  fellow-men;  he 
had  no  washy  tolerance  for  the  faults  and  foibles 
of  others ;  he  did  not  spare  his  fellows ;  he  argued 
just  as  vehemently,  he  silenced  his  opponents  just 
as  peremptorily,  he  laid  down  the  law  just  as 
overbearingly,  as  if  he  had  never  known  what  it 
was  to  be  penitent  and  contrite.  How  different 
from  the  piety  of  poor  Coleridge,  snivelling  over 
his  cup  of  cold  tea  at  Highgate,  and  crying  out 
lamentably,  "  But  it  is  better  than  I  deserve  " ! 
The  point  is  to  take  your  punishment  like  a  man 
when  it  comes,  and  not  to  whine  about  it.     If 


Resolutions  231 

you  glory  in  it,  you  make  the  punishment 
palatable  by  increasing  your  consciousness  of 
meekness  and  patience.  Who  does  not  remember 
the  self-righteous  old  servant  in  The  Master  of 
Ballantrae,  who  took  to  his  bed  and  bore  himself 
like  an  afflicted  saint?  "But  the  root  of  his 
malady,  in  my  poor  thought,"  says  the  shrewd 
Mackellar,  "  was  drink." 

Yet  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  something  to 
be  urged  against  ceaseless  privately  conducted 
scrutiny  into  one^s  own  conduct.  Half  the  danger 
of  pet  faults  is  that  they  are  so  ingeniously 
screened  from  their  owner.  There  are  many 
faults  which  are  the  seamy  side  of  virtues;  the 
ill-tempered  man  seems  to  himself  to  be  bluflf  and 
outspoken,  the  tactless  man  to  be  frank  and  can- 
did, the  mean  man  to  be  strenuously  economical, 
the  poor-spirited  man  to  be  patient  and  unworldly. 
I  have  never  derived  so  much  benefit  from  intro- 
spection as  T  have  derived  from  the  unconsidered 
utterance  of  a  blunt  friend  or  an  offensive  enemy ; 
and  a  secret  process,  where  one  is  judge  and  jury 
and  advocate  and  prisoner  and  executioner  all  at 
once,  generally  results  in  a  plea  of  justification 
or  extenuating  circumstances. 

It  may  fairly  be  maintained  that  much  making 
of  little  resolutions,  with  the  inevitable  sequel  of 
much  breaking  of  them,  is  neither  a  very  fruitful 
nor  a  very  wholesome  process.  It  is  not  very 
wholesome,  because  it  implies  a  good  deal  of 
raking  in  the  rubbish-heaps  of  the  soul ;  and  there 


232  Along  the  Road 

is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the  old  mystical  doc- 
trine called  Transcension,  which  means  nothing 
more  than  a  very  practical  abbreviation  of  the 
period  of  repentance.  The  idea  is  that  prolonged 
and  wilful  self-abasement  is  not  a  very  inspirit- 
ing process,  and  that  one's  moral  failures  are 
best  interred  as  speedily  as  possible.  Dr.  John- 
son was,  in  fact,  a  very  prompt  and  sane  Tran- 
scensionist,  though  he  would  no  doubt  have  re- 
volted from  it  if  he  had  known  its  technical  and 
scholastic  name.  Again,  the  process  of  resolu- 
tion-making and  resolution-breaking  is  not,  as  I 
have  said,  a  very  fruitful  one;  it  is  weakening 
to  the  fibre  of  the  soul  to  be  for  ever  taking 
pledges  which  one  has  only  a  very  feeble  hope 
of  fulfilling.  The  practice  is  somewhat  stuffy; 
it  wants  ventilation;  it  needs  a  little  crude  pub- 
licity. One  is  not  likely  to  be  very  much  ashamed 
of  not  keeping  a  promise  made  to  oneself,  which 
one  only  feels  it  would  be  convenient,  if  possible, 
to  perform.  As  a  common-sense  friend  once  said 
to  me,  talking  about  the  whole  subject :  "  No, 
I  don't  make  resolutions ;  if  I  think  I  am  capable 
of  doing  what  I  want  to  do,  I  don't  need  a 
resolution;  if  I  think  I  am  incapable  of  carry- 
ing out  an  intention,  it  only  makes  things  worse 
if  I  take  a  resolution  without  expecting  to  keep 
it." 

In  fact,  I  am  disposed  to  think  that  if  a  matter 
is  serious  enough,  and  if  one  is  conscious  enough 
of  weakness  to  distrust  one's  own  powers  of  self- 


Resolutions  233 

reformation,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  take  some 
wise  and  kindly  person  into  confidence,  and  to 
pledge  oneself  to  state,  at  some  fixed  future  date, 
how  things  have  been  going.  That  can  be  a  real 
assistance,  because  it  introduces  the  external  ele- 
ment which  well-intentioned  but  weak-minded 
I)eople  stand  in  need  of.  And,  in  any  case,  the 
thing  ought  to  be  done  solemnly  and  seriously, 
and  not  too  often.  It  is  undoubtedly  a  wise 
thing  to  do  to  take  stock,  so  to  speak,  at  inter- 
vals. One  cannot  cure  a  fault  in  a  week  or  de- 
velop a  virtue  in  a  month.  Rut  if  one  surveys 
a  considerable  period,  it  is  possible  to  see  whether 
one  has  advanced  or  retreated. 

But,  like  all  personal  things,  it  is  largely  a 
matter  of  temperament.  If  the  making  of  resolu- 
tions is  a  practice  that  helps  people,  there  is  no 
conceivable  reason  why  they  should  not  have  re- 
course to  it.  Even  then,  the  danger  is  of  trying 
to  make  i)rogress  in  details,  of  making  a  fussy 
and  a  petty  business  of  the  whole  thing,  instead 
of  advancing  on  large  lines.  I  have  often  mis- 
trusted the  old  proverb  about  looking  after  the 
]>ence,  and  letting  the  pounds  take  care  of  them- 
selves. That  generally  seems  to  me  to  result  in 
great  discomfort  and  little  accumulation.  Much 
more  substantial  fortunes  are  made  by  looking 
after  the  i)onnds,  and  not  fretting  over  the  jDence. 

The  thing  is  to  have  a  line  of  one's  own;  to 
be  sensible,  hopeful,  and  courageous,  rather  than 
to  be  in  a  perpetual  condition  of  scrupulous  self- 


234  Along  the  Road 

accusation  and  morbid  discouragement;  and  to 
remember  that,  if  it  is  indeed  true  that  hell  is 
paved  with  good  resolutions,  it  is  no  less  true 
that  heaven  is  roofed  with  them! 


BIOGRAPHY 

Tt  is  a  very  interesting  question  as  to  how 
biographies  ought  to  be  written,  and  what  are, 
or  ought  to  be,  the  precise  limits  of  discretion 
and  indiscretion  permitted  to  a  biographer.  The 
primary  difficulty  is  this:  It  is  easy  to  tell 
nothing  but  the  truth  about  a  man,  and  yet  to 
give  a  thoroughly  erroneous  idea  of  him.  Yet  if 
a  biography  is  written  soon  after  the  death  of 
its  subject,  it  may  be  impossible,  with  due  regard 
for  the  feelings  of  sur\ivors  and  relatives,  to  tell 
the  whole  truth.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  prac- 
tically inevitable  that  a  biography  should  be 
issued  soon  after  a  man's  death.  If  it  is  deferred, 
it  may  be  deferred  for  ever.  In  these  days,  when 
rapidity  is  a  notable  characteristic  of  the  age,  our 
memories  are  short.  The  kaleidoscope  shifts  fast, 
and  the  personality  of  to-day  becomes  a  shadowy 
memory  to-morrow.  What,  then,  is  a  biographer 
to  do?  Is  he  to  submit  his  biography  to  every 
one  who  has  the  least  right  to  be  consulted? 
And  if  so,  is  he  bound  to  defer  to  the  preferences 
and  prejudices  of  those  whom  he  consults?  And 
then  there  comes  in  a  further  difficulty.     In  the 

235 


236  Along  the  Road 

life  of  men  who  have  played  a  considerable  part 
in  the  world,  there  are  sure  to  be  episodes  and 
controversies  which  have  a  considerable  tempo- 
rary interest,  but  the  interest  of  which  is  bound 
to  expire  before  very  long.  To  what  extent  is 
the  biographer  bound  to  devote  large  tracts  of 
his  book  to  these  affairs  ?  It  is  certain  that  there 
will  be  a  good  many  people  who  will  expect  such 
episodes  to  be  treated  fully,  and  will  pronounce 
the  book  to  be  incomplete  unless  a  good  deal  of 
space  is  thus  occupied.  But  the  result  of  this 
upon  the  general  reader — the  man  who  is  more 
interested  in  the  personality  than  in  the  detailed 
work  of  the  hero — will  be  that  the  book  will  con- 
vey an  impression  of  heaviness  and  dulness.  Are 
these  technicalities  to  be  introduced  for  the  sake 
of  technical  students,  or  are  they  to  be  merely 
summarised  and  popularised  for  the  sake  of  the 
general  reader?  These  and  similar  difficulties 
have  all  to  be  faced  by  the  biographer. 

The  worst  of  the  position  is  that  the  people 
who  have  what  is  called  a  right  to  object,  do 
not,  as  a  rule,  object  to  the  right  things.  There 
are  a  good  many  picturesque  incidents  and  ad- 
ventures which  may  happen  to  a  man,  which  are 
not  really  material  to  his  biography.  They  may 
be  interesting  enough,  but  often  the  interest  they 
possess  is  not  derived  from  the  illustration  they 
afford  of  the  personality  of  the  hero,  but  because 
they  cast  light  upon  some  other  interesting  per- 
sonage.    These  can  be  safely  and  fairly  omitted. 


Biography  237 

But  the  points  which  the  relatives  of  a  man  often 
object  to  are  i)icturesque,  humorous,  vivid  details, 
which  they  think  display  him  in  an  undignified, 
impatient,  vehement,  or  inconsiderate  light.  Peo- 
ple are  apt  to  lose  all  sense  of  humour  in  the 
presence  of  death;  and  the  unfortunate  thing  is 
that  the  more  vivid  and  impetuous  a  man  is, 
the  more  of  these  incidents  are  likely  to  be  on 
record.  The  result  of  such  a  biography,  where 
too  much  deference  is  paid  to  the  wishes  of  rela- 
tives, is  that  there  is  what  Jowett  described  as 
a  strong  smell  of  something  left  out.  One  gets 
a  stately,  dignified,  statuesque,  saintly  kind  of 
portrait,  which  is  to  intimate  friends  nothing 
more  than  a  sickening  caricature,  and  bears  as 
much  resemblance  to  the  true  man  as  his  features 
viewed  in  a  spoon. 

I  suppose  it  may  be  admitted  that  Bos  well's 
Johnson  is  probably  the  best  biography  ever 
written.  But  here  there  w^ere  some  very  marked 
advantages  which  simplified  the  situation.  John- 
son was  a  childless  widower,  and  had  no  very 
close  circle  of  relatives  to  be  deferred  to.  More- 
over, though  there  were  plenty  of  incidents  and 
occasions  on  which  Johnson  displayed  neither 
the  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  nor  the  forbearance 
of  a  Christian,  yet  there  were  far  more  numerous 
instances  of  noble  generosity,  splendid  courage, 
and  fervent  piety.  The  result  of  BoswelPs  book 
is  that  we  get  the  very  heart  and  mind  of  a  great 
man ;  and  therefore  it  may  be  fairly  said  that  if 


238  Along  the  Road 

a  biography  is  meant  to  interest  posterity,  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  what  is  called  indiscretion  is 
not  only  permissible  but  necessary;  and  more 
than  that.  The  enormous  merit  of  Boswell  as  a 
biographer  is  that  he  knew  that  many  of  the 
things  that  are  usually  dismissed  as  trivial  are 
really  the  things  in  which  the  human  mind  is 
most  deeply  interested.  There  is  a  story  told 
somewhere,  of  certain  elderly  ladies  who  enjoyed 
reading  biography.  Their  method  was  a  simple 
one.  When  they  saw  before  them  such  words  as 
"  policy  "  or  "  progress  "  they  hastily  turned  the 
page;  when  they  encountered  such  words  as 
*'  smallpox  "  or  "  pony  "  they  devoured  every  syl- 
lable. The  biographer  must  keep  this  fact  in 
view,  or,  rather,  he  must  have  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  what  interests  himself,  rather  than 
a  theory  of  what  ought  to  interest  the  well- 
regulated  mind — a  type  of  mind  which  is  in 
reality  as  uncommon  as  it  is  intolerable. 

Let  me  take  a  few  instances  of  recent  bio- 
graphies, and  indicate  the  qualities  by  which 
they  succeeded  or  the  reverse.  The  Life  of  Lord 
Macaulay,  by  Sir  George  Trevelyan,  is  one  of  the 
best  Lives  of  the  last  century.  It  is  neither  too 
technical  nor  too  minute.  But  then  Macaulay 
was  a  very  amiable  man,  and  a  decidedly  pic- 
turesque figure,  thoroughly  human  and  pleasantly 
gay,  so  that  there  was  little  possibility  of  offence, 
and  infinite  scope  for  a  truthful  biographer. 

The  Life   of  Tennyson,  by  the  present  Lord 


Biography  239 

Tennyson,  is  a  collection  of  extremely  interesting; 
and  vivid  material.  Tennyson  had  the  quality  of 
personal  impressiveness.  As  the  life  of  a  poet, 
it  is  admirable.  But  there  was  another  side, 
which  kept  Tennyson,  in  spite  of  his  genius,  in- 
(cnsely  human:  he  had  no  petty  qualities,  except 
])erhaps  his  vanity,  but  he  had  unrestrained, 
homely,  frank,  full-blooded  moods — perhaps  but 
!  a  rely  displayed  to  his  son — the  absence  of  which 
ill  the  biography  renders  the  picture  incomplete. 
He  could  never  have  been  anything  but  dignified, 
l)ut  his  dignity  was  not  quite  on  such  pure  and 
e([uable  lines  as  the  book  conveys  the  impression 
of,  and  it  was  perhaps  a  larger  and  a  finer  thing, 
because  of  the  very  conflict  which  the  book  hardly 
reveals. 

The  Lives  of  Morris  and  Burne-Jones,  by  Pro- 
fessor Mackail  and  Lady  Burne-Jones  respec- 
tively, are  both  beautiful  and  admirable  books, 
because  they  reveal  so  much  of  the  inner  spirit 
of  the  two  men.  In  form,  I  think  that  the  Life 
f)f  William  Morris  has  been  rarely  surpassed.  Its 
proportion  is  exquisite,  and  the  tale  is  told  with 
I  masterly  unity  and  an  equable  progress.  The 
f/(fe  of  Burne-Jones  is  notable  for  a  charming 
simplicity  and  na'ivetS  of  presentment,  which 
seems  to  bring  one  into  direct  touch  with  the 
'vtist  himself.    Yet  I  have  heard  each  Life  criti- 

sed  by  intimate  friends  of  the  two  men.  I  have 
lieard  it  said  that  a  certain  hardness  of  character, 
;in  unsympathetic  self-absorption  in  his  own  work. 


240  Along  the  Road 

which  characterised  Morris,  was  not  sufficiently 
indicated;  and  that  in  Burne-Jones  there  was  a 
certain  freakishness  of  disposition,  a  petulance 
of  spirit,  of  which  the  book  gives  little  idea.  I 
am  not  in  a  position  to  estimate  the  truth  of  these 
criticisms.  But  it  is  certain  that  a  man  of  in- 
tense energy  and  will-power,  such  as  Morris  pos- 
sessed, cannot  pursue  a  very  definite  line  of  work 
without  collisions  with  dissimilar  natures;  while 
a  nature  like  Burne-Jones's  is  liable  to  reactions 
of  weariness  and  depression,  which  are  bound  to 
play  a  part  in  his  life. 

In  a  biography  of  a  different  kind,  the  Life  of 
Lord  Randolph  Churchill^  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
balance  is  very  judiciously  and  faithfully  pre- 
served. Mr.  Winston  Churchill  there  exhibited 
the  rare  gift  of  never  allowing  his  critical  sense 
to  be  overpowered  by  filial  admiration  and  sym- 
pathy. He  contrives  to  be  amazingly  dispassion- 
ate and  impersonal.  The  result  is  that  the  book 
displays  to  the  full  the  strength  and  the  gener- 
osity of  its  subject,  while  it  clearly  reveals  the 
impulsiveness  of  temperament  which  was  fatal  to 
stability  and  sturdlness  of  character  and  career. 
The  book  is  candid,  vivid,  and  just,  and  holds  a 
high  place  among  contemporary  biographies. 

One  other  book  I  would  here  mention,  because 
of  all  recent  biographical  studies  it  is  almost 
supreme  in  psychological  interest.  Father  and 
^on  was  hailed  by  many  readers,  apart  from  its 
exquisite  literary  skill,  as  a  record  of  extraor- 


Biography  241 

dinary  subtlety,  pathos,  and  humour;  and  what 
was  felt  by  such  readers  to  be  its  consummate 
beauty  was  that  the  biographer  never  either  ex- 
alted or  spared  himself  in  tracing  the  lineaments 
of  a  character  in  many  respects  so  alien  to  his 
own;  and  thus  it  appeared  to  be  an  almost  tri- 
umphant combination  of  critical  observation  and 
tender  devotion.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
were  critics  who  held  it  to  be  a  violation  of 
domestic  piety  and  filial  duty!  We  cannot  dis- 
regard such  criticism  as  being  merely  reactionary 
:ind  stupid ;  it  has,  no  doubt,  a  wholesome  element, 
and  as  long  as  humanity  exists  there  must  always 
be  a  conflict  between  reverence  and  candour, 
between  emotion  and  art. 

The  difficulty,  then,  is  ultimately  insoluble. 
On  the  one  hand,  if  a  biographer  is  not  intimate 
with  his  subject  he  cannot  give  a  lifelike  por- 
tiait;  if  he  is  intimate,  he  may  hesitate  to  be 
frank,  or  if  he  is  frank,  he  will  be  accused  of 
impiety.  And,  again,  we  suffer  under  the  defects 
of  our  quality;  for  English  writers  have  been 
] ire-eminent  for  the  seriousness  with  which  they 
liave  treated  moral  ideas  in  art.  There  is  thus 
:i  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  public  to  demand 
tliat  a  book  must  be  edifying;  and  so  a  com- 
])romise  seems  almost  essential.  If  the  lives  of 
all  great  men  were  invariably  edifying,  there 
would  be  no  difficulty — yet  no  one  has  ever  ac- 
( used  St.  Augustine  of  being  indiscreet!  The 
only  rule  would  seem  to  be  that  the  biographer 

z6 


242  Along  the  Road 

must  not  suppress  or  omit  essential  features  of 
life  and  character;  and  that  he  must  trust  to 
the  whole  effect  being  ultimately  inspiring  and 
edifying.  The  real  weakness  of  the  idealising 
biographer  is  this :  that  we  are  most  of  us  frail ; 
and  that  it  encourages  us  far  more,  in  reading 
the  lives  of  great  men,  to  see  them  regretting 
their  failures,  fighting  against  their  temptations, 
triumphing  over  their  unworthy  qualities,  than 
to  read  the  life  of  a  man  which  seems  to  be  merely 
an  equable  progress  from  strength  to  strength, 
a  prosperous  voyage  over  serene  seas  to  a  haven 
of  repose  and  glory. 


GOSSIP 

It  was  said  of  Queen  Victoria  by  one  who  knew 
her  well  that  the  conversation  she  liked  best  was 
conversation  that  was  personal  without  being 
gossipy.  That  is  only  another  of  the  many  in- 
stances in  which  the  Queen  in  matters  of  prac- 
tical conduct  instinctively  drew  the  line  in  the 
exact  place,  and  made  the  right  distinction.  To 
be  able  to  do  this  is  only  possible  to  people  who 
possess  a  sui)renie  combination  of  fine  feeling  and 
perfect  common-sense.  It  is  extrpinply  difficult  to 
lai_dpwn  principles  in  the  matter  of  conversation. 
or  to  regulate  the  use  and  abuse  of  '^^hi^l  ih  mr. 
rently  called  gossip.  It  is  not  a  question  simply 
^of  what  one  listens  to,  and  what  one  says,  but 
whom  one  listens  to,  and  to  whom  one  talks.  To 
lay  down  a  general  rule  that  one  ought  not  to 
discuss  other  people  is  to  be  a  preposterous  prig. 
If  human  beings  are  not  to  be  interested  in  each 
other's  acts  and  words,  and  are  not  to  discuss 
them,  it  is  very  hard  to  say  what  they  may  dis- 
cuss. It  is  equally  unreasonable  to  say  that  one 
ought  not  to  discuss  one's  friends  behind  their 
back,  or  that  one  ought  not  to  say  anything 
243 


244  Along  the  Road 

about  an  acquaintance  that  one  is  not  prepared 
to  say  before  him,  because  it  is  not  by  any  means 
always  good  for  people  to  know  the  truth  about 
themselves,  whether  it  be  palatable  or  unpala- 
table. Thejclifficulty  about  the  whole  question  is 
that  we  all  of  us  do  and  say^ th ings  that  we~ot[ght 
not  _toI3o~oiFsay,  of  which  we  are  or  oughtTol)e~~ 
ashamed,  and  which  we  do  not  wish  to  be  in- 
cluded in  the  impression  which  we  should  like 
others  to  form  of  us.  Another  practical  diffi- 
culty is  that  there  are  many  things  which  may 
fairly  be  said,  which  may  not  fairly  be  repeated, 
and  that  some  listeners  are  naturally  leaky. 
They  may  hear  a  thing  in  confidence,  and  even 
if  they  are  not  seized  with  a  burning  desire  to 
proclaim  it,  because  every  one  likes  to  astonish 
and  surprise  and  interest  others,  they  soon 
forget  that  it  was  confidential,  and  impart  it  as 
naturally  as  they  impart  all  they  know. 

We  most  of  us  lead  an  exterior  life  which  is 
public  property,  and  which  any  one  may  legiti- 
mately discuss,  and  an  interior  life  which  we 
share  with  our  circle  of  intimates.  But  it  is  not 
fair  to  say  that  we  have  no  right  to  make  public 
what  we  learn  through  intimacy.  There  are 
many  people  who  make  a  less  agreeable  impres- 
sion on  the  world  than  they  do  on  their  friends, 
and  if  the  friends  are  not  to  endeavour  to  correct 
and  improve  that  impression,  their  friendship  is 
not  worth  much.  Again,  to  say,  as  I  have  heard 
worthy  people  say,  that  one  ought  only  to  speak 


Gossip  245 


well  of  others,  makes  both  for  dulness  and  in- 
sincerity. Hometimes  it  is  a  plain  duty,  if  one 
knows  evil  of  a  man,  to  warn  an  inexi)erienced 
l)erson  who  may  be  drifting  into  intimacy  with 
him;  and  apart  from  that,  we  all  of  us  have 
faults  and  foibles,  not  of  a  serious  kind,  which 
may  be  fairly  and  not  even  uncharitably  discussed 
by  friends  and  foes  alike.  It  is  perhaps  fair  to 
]M)stulate  that  we  must  not  say,  either  maliciously 
or  thoughtlessly,  things,  however  true,  which  tend 
to  make  a  person  more  odious  or  more  ridiculous 
than  he  need  be.  But  it  is  not  human  to  Main- 
tain that  if  a  notoriously  vain  or  rude  person  is 
mentioned,  no  one  is  under  any  consideration  to 
mention  salient  instances  of  his  vanity  or  rude- 
ness. What  a  kindly  person  instinctively  does  is 
to  mention  at  the  same  time  instances  of  the  more 
agreeable  traits  of  such  characters,  which  may 
tend  to  escai)e  observation.  The  one  thing  that 
is  really  unpardonable  is  to  tell  a  person  who 
lias  been  the  subject  of  discussion  what  his  critics 
or  foes  have  said  about  him.  It  is,  of  course, 
conceivable  that  such  a  thing  may  be  done  from 
^^ood  motives,  or  at  all  events  a  tale-bearer  pro- 
l)ably  as  a  rule  deceives  himself  into  thinking 
that  his  motives  are  good.  But  heaven  guard  us 
from  such  motives !  I  have  known  the  thing  done 
<»ften  enough,  and  I  have  never  known  it  to  do 
anything  but  cause  pain  and  suspicion  and  morti- 
lication.  Personally,  I  do  not  care  in  the  least 
what  anyone,  friend  or  foe,  says  of  me  behind 


246  Along  the  Road 

my  back,  as  long  as  I  am  not  told  of  their  critic- 
isms. I  am  quite  aware  of  my  faults,  and 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  tliem.  To  know  that  they 
are  discussed  by  others  is  only  humiliating;  to 
believe  that  they  are  not  observed,  or  charitably 
viewed  by  others,  encourages  me  to  try  to  do 
better.  There  are,  of  course,  people  in  the  world 
whose  temperament  seems  to  have  turned  sour. 
Tt  is  not  wholly  their  fault.  Sometimes  ill-health 
is  the  cause,  sometimes  dull  and  petty  surround- 
ings, sometimes  a  lack  of  close  human  relation- 
ships, or  an  absence  of  normal  activities.  In  such 
hands  as  these,  gossip  undoubtedly  becomes  a 
corroding  and  malignant  process.  I  sat  the  other 
day  in  a  hotel  close  to  a  party  of  three  elderly 
ladies,  sisters,  I  thought,  who  were  travelling,  it 
seemed,  in  search  of  material  for  conversation. 
But  on  the  particular  evening  in  question  thej^ 
were  indulging  in  a  species  of  anatomical  demon- 
stration. They  laid  friend  after  absent  friend 
upon  the  block  and  dissected  each  mercilessly 
and  minutely.  It  was  rather  a  terrible  display 
of  human  nature,  and,  like  the  poet,  I  looked  at 
the  ladies  "  and  did  not  wish  them  mine." 

But  when  all  is  said,  the  thing  must  be  a 
matter  of  instinct  and  grace  rather  than  of  prin- 
ciple and  effort.  A  good-humoured  and  tolerant 
man  may  say  things  without  a  suspicion  of  offence 
which  in  the  hands  of  a  malicious  and  unkindly 
person  would  seem  like  a  shower  of  mud;  gossip 
is,  after  all,  but  the  natural  outcome  of  interest 


Gossip  247 


in  other  human  beings;  and  it  is  better  that  we 
should  be  interested  in  each  other,  even  at  the 
expense  of  some  sharpness  of  criticism.  There  is 
a  fine  apophthegm  which  sums  up  the  whole 
matter — and  in  passing  may  I  say  that  I  wish 
I  could  discover  the  source  of  the  quotation? 

"  There  's  so  much  good  in  the  worst  of  us, 
There  *s  so  much  bad  in  the  best  of  us, 
That  it  ill  beseems  any  one  of  us 
To  find  much  fault  with  the  rest  of  us." 

That  is  large-minded  enough  for  anything — a 
finer  maxim  than  the  deliciously  cynical  remark 
made  by  one  of  the  characters  in  Mr.  Mallock's 
\'ew  Republic,  w^ho  justifies  scandal  on  the  ground 
that  it  is  a  thing  based  on  one  of  the  most  sacred 
of  qualities — truth,  and  built  up  by  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  qualities — imagination. 


TACTFULNESS 

It  was  only  a  conversation,  and  we  came  to  no 
conclusion,  like  the  talkers  in  Plato's  dialogues. 
The  subject  of  tact  came  up,  I  do  not  know  how, 
and  one  of  the  party  said :  "  Who  is  the  most 
tactful  person  you  know?  "  There  was  a  silence, 
and  then  the  same  speaker  said  triumphantly, 
"  Can  you  mention  any  one  whom  you  consider 
really  tactful?"     A  name  was  mentioned.     "Oh, 

no!"  said  another;  "A is  not  tactful — ^he  is 

only  discreet;  he  talks  about  things  and  questions 
and  facts,  and  never  mentions  people;  he  runs 
no  risks.  It  is  not  tactful  to  keep  out  of  hot 
water  yourself.  The  point  is  to  keep  other  people 
out  of  hot  water."  This  was  agreed  to,  and  an- 
other name  was  mentioned.  "  Oh  dear  no!  "  said 
the  same  objector ;  "  he  is  tactful  in  the  sense  that 
he  is  full  of  tact;  but  he  is  too  full.  It  is  as 
though  he  used  too  strong  a  scent,  and  too  much 
of  it.  He  always  reminds  me  of  a  story  of  the 
late  Master  of  Trinity.  Someone,  speaking  of  a 
popular  preacher  before  him,  said :  '  I  like  his 
sermons ;  he  has  so  much  taste.'  *  Yes,'  said  the 
Master,  ^  and  all  of  it  so  bad.' "  This  gravamen 
248 


Tactful  ness  249 

was  accepted,  and  a  third  name  was  mentioned, 
to  which  our  critic  said :  "  No,  he  is  not  quite 
right  either;  the  really  tactful  man  should  pour 

in  both  oil  and  wine.     Now,  B supplies  the 

oil  freely,  but  forgets  the  wine;  he  mollifies,  he 
does  not  stimulate." 

One  of  the  party  then  said  very  gently :  "  Well, 
we  are  talking  frankly,  and  I  will  say  that  I 
consider  myself  a  tactful  person."  There  was  a 
silence,  while  the  circle  reflected,  and  the  chief 
critic  said  meditatively :  "  Dr.  Johnson  said  once 
that  he  considered  himself  a  polite  man."  There 
was  a  laugh  at  this,  and  we  gave  up  trying  to 
discover  tactful  people. 

The  conversation  then  became  general  and  im- 
personal, and  though  we  came  to  no  conclusions, 
we  indulged  in  many  brisk  and  inaccurate  gen- 
(M-alisations,  the  chief  of  which  I  will  try  to 
summarise. 

The  fact  is  that  tactfulness,  like  humility,  is 
one  of  the  virtues  the  very  existence  of  which 
depends  upon  its  escaping  observation.  The  mo- 
ment that  it  becomes  conscious  of  itself,  or  that 
others  become  conscious  of  it,  it  either  evaporates, 
or  becomes  almost  offensive.  It  must  be  unsus- 
])ected,  like  the  onion  in  the  salad ;  if  it  is  de- 
tected, it  is  ipso  facto  excessive.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  say  in  what  tact  exactly  consists. 
Like  all  other  subtle  qualities,  it  is  an  instinctive 
gift;  and  though  it  can  be  imi)roved  upon,  if  it 
is  there,  it  can  hardly  be  acquired.     The  tactful 


250  Along  the  Road 

person,  by  some  secret  grace,  keeps  a  hundred 
things  in  his  mind,  and  applies  them  all.  It  is 
not  that  he  says  to  himself,  "  This  topic  will  not 

do  because  A will  not  like  it";  nor  does  he 

say,  "  This  subject  will  interest  the  party  and 

enable  B to  shine,  so  I  will  start  it."    He 

does  not  determine  not  to  give  offence,  nor  does 
he  wish  to  draw  people  out,  or  to  reconcile  them. 
He  is  merely  perfectly  natural  and  kindly;  he 
does  not  desire  to  please ;  he  simply  wants  every- 
one to  be  comfortable  and  natural  too.  The  re- 
sult is  that  guests  leave  a  party  at  which  a  tactful 
person  has  held  the  reins,  not  saying,  "  How 
well  our  host  directed  the  conversation,"  but 
merely  feeling  that  they  have  themselves  been  at 
their  best;  and  thus  tactfulness  does  not  as  a 
rule  earn  praise  and  gratitude;  it  only  increases 
happiness  and  expansiveness.  It  cannot  be  noticed 
at  the  time,  for  the  tactful  person  is  the  person 
with  whom  you  feel  instinctively  at  ease.  The 
tactful  person  does  not  horrify  the  shy  specialist 
by  asking  him,  in  a  silence,  a  leading  question 
on  his  subject;  while  if  a  dangerous  topic  is  in- 
troduced, he  does  not  interrupt,  but  steers  the 
talk  delicately  into  safer  waters.  He  modulates, 
so  to  speak,  out  of  the  key;  he  does  not  crash 
in  some  inharmonious  chord. 

Tactfulness  does  not  by  any  means  aim  at 
producing  a  kind  of  sunset  effect  on  a  conversa- 
tion, a  harmonious  golden  light  over  everything. 
The  tactful  person  will  often  provoke  an  argu- 


Tactful  ness  251 

ment,  and  even  encourage  a  heated  controversy, 
if  he  knows  the  antagonists  can  be  trusted  to 
use  the  gloves  good-humouredly.  He  sees  fair  play 
and  is  tirae-keei)er  as  well  as  referee.  And  he  sees, 
too,  when  a  party  is  inclined  to  listen  rather 
than  to  talk,  and  has  the  power  of  talking  gen- 
erally but  unobtrusively — unobtrusively,  because 
the  essential  point  is  that  he  should  never  arouse 
jealousy,  or  create  a  suspicion  that  the  situation 
is  being  handled,  still  less  adroitly  handled.  And 
thus  the  tactful  person  can  hardly  be  enthusiastic, 
because  enthusiasm  implies  a  certain  combative- 
ness;  but  he  must  be  able  to  appreciate  en- 
thusiasm in  other  people,  and,  what  is  more,  to 
interpret  and  harmonise  enthusiasm  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  it  seem  natural  and  agreeable,  in- 
stead of  appearing,  as  it  often  does,  superior  and 
fanatical.  And  the  real  reason  why  the  tactful 
person  is  so  rare  is  that  tactfulness  implies  a 
union  of  a  great  many  qualities,  quick  observa- 
tion of  tones  of  voice  and  facial  expression  and 
little  gestures,  a  good  memory,  genuine  sympathy, 
<i:ood -humour,  promptness,  justice,  and  a  consider- 
able range,  not  only  of  intellectual  interests,  but 
of  current  interests  of  every  kind.  And  this 
combination  is  not  a  common  one. 

Such  was  our  talk,  amusing  enough,  and  not  ex- 
hausting. We  picked  upsomepretty  thoughts  by  the 
way,  and  we  separated  under  a  vow  that  we  would 
search  like  Diogenes  for  tactful  persons,  and  when 
we  had  found  them  be  careful  not  to  betray  them. 


ON  FINDING  ONE'S  LEVEL 

It  always  makes  me  very  suspicious  of  a  man's 
perception  or  knowledge  of  the  world  to  hear  him 
generalise  easily  about  people.  A  man  who  says 
that  children  always  know  at  first  sight  who  loves 
them,  and  who  does  not,  and  that  all  boys  are 
generous  and  all  young  men  confident  and  all 
women  unselfish,  is  a  person  from  whose  conversa- 
tion I  do  not  expect  much  benefit.  The  more  one 
knows  of  people,  the  more  mysterious  and  un- 
accountable they  become.  But  there  is  one  feel- 
ing which  I  think  is  common  to  most  human 
beings  towards  the  end  of  their  time  of  education, 
when  they  are  about  to  enter  the  world.  By  that 
time,  after  a  strict  course  of  examination,  we 
know  fairly  well  where  we  stand  intellectually. 
We  know  how  well  we  play  games,  we  have  few 
delusions  about  our  personal  appearance,  except 
a  vague  idea  that  we  look  rather  well  at  certain 
angles  and  in  a  subdued  light.  But  we  almost 
all  of  us  believe  that  we  are  interesting  and  effec- 
tive in  our  own  way.  We  think  that  if  we  could 
describe  our  views  and  opinions,  they  would  be 
seen  to  be  sensible,  and  to  have  a  certain  charm ; 

252 


On  Finding  One's  Level        253 

and  we  many  of  ns  believe  that,  under  favourable 
circumstances  and  with  the  right  material,  we 
have  a  degree  of  real  effectiveness.  One  does  not 
wish  to  deprive  peofde  too  quickl}^  of  their  illu- 
sions, because  they  produce  a  certain  sunshine  of 
the  mind,  without  which  happy  and  contented 
work  is  hardly  possible.  But,  curiously  enough, 
it  is  not,  as  a  rule,  the  gifted  i)eople  who  are 
(omplacent  and  conceited.  They  are  generally 
clever  enough  to  see  that  their  best  is  not  very 
good,  and  to  perceive  their  many  deficiencies. 
Complacency  is  not  a  thing  which  depends  upon 
applause  or  admiration :  it  is  a  quality  of  mind, 
and  often  robustly  independent  of  all  results  and 
comparisons.  But  even  if  we  are  not  complacent, 
we  most  of  us  take  up  our  work  in  the  world  with 
a  vague  presage  of  success,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  successfulness  is  not  by  any  means  the  result 
of  commanding  qualities,  but  a  quality  in  itself, 
a  blend  of  tenacity  and  tact.  The  work  of  the 
world  does  not  for  the  majority  of  people  require 
commanding  ability  or  ornamental  gifts.  It  re- 
(jnires  good-humour  and  patience  and  industry 
and  the  power  of  taking  pains. 

Well,  we  shoulder  our  burden  and  go  out  into 
the  world,  and  at  once  the  process  of  sorting 
begins.  A  few  people  have  a  stroke  of  luck  at 
the  outset.  They  slip  into  a  good  opening;  they 
get  an  appointment  which  is  rather  better  than 
they  deserve;  they  know  some  one  with  influence, 
who  makes  the  first  step  an  easy  one.     But  most 


254  Along  the  Road 

of  us  find  ourselves  with  a  perfectly  ordinary  and 
commonplace  task,  with  an  income  to  earn  and 
a  place  to  make.  Perhaps  for  a  few  years  we  arc 
not  wholly  contented;  we  think  we  have  not  had 
quite  a  fair  chance;  and  then  we  find  that  it 
needs  all  our  powers  even  to  do  our  own  simple 
piece  of  work  satisfactorily;  we  begin  to  see  that 
we  must  not  hope  for  any  great  recognition,  and 
that  strokes  of  luck  are  not  things  to  be  depended 
upon.  Then  the  years  begin  to  fly  past  us  like 
telegraph  posts.  We  settle  into  our  work,  we 
marry,  the  income  has  to  be  increased;  if  pos- 
sible, the  children  have  to  be  educated.  We  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  considering  ourselves,  on  the 
whole,  young  people,  with  a  good  many  pos- 
sibilities ahead.  Suddenly  we  awake  to  the  fact 
that  we  are  five  and  forty,  a  little  stiffer  in  the 
joints  than  formerly,  with  streaks  of  grey  in  our 
hair,  or  perhaps  a  tendency  to  baldness.  And 
then  we  realise  with  a  shock  that  our  prospect 
of  any  great  development  of  life  and  fortune  is^ 
over;  we  are  ordinary  citizens,  undistinguished 
persons,  with  our  position  and  our  income  and 
our  abilities  perfectly  clear  to  every  one,  and 
Avith  no  particular  hope  of  being  or  becominjj 
anything  else  than  what  we  are. 

It  is  then,  I  think,  that  the  great  strain  of  life 
falls  upon  a  man.  He  can  be  interesting  and 
romantic  no  longer;  he  has  lost  his  vague  am- 
bitions. There  are  no  more  worlds  to  conquer, 
and  he  would  not  know  how  to  set  about  con- 


On  Finding  One's  Level       255 

quering  them  if  there  were.  He  is  at  the  dividing 
of  the  ways.  He  cannot  even  persuade  himself 
that  he  is  particularly  effective  at  his  own  job. 
He  can  do  it,  perhaps,  conscientiously  and  faith- 
fully; but  he  cannot  hope  to  be  told  to  take 
dominion  over  ten  cities. 

It  is  then,  I  believe,  that  the  real  great  choice  of 
life  is  made.  If  a  man  is  sensible,  good-humoured, 
and  right-minded,  he  shrugs  his  shoulders  with  a 
smile,  and  reflects  that  though  he  has  not  made 
a  great  splash,  he  has  found  an  abundance  of 
good  things  by  the  way.  He  has  a  loving  wife, 
perhaps,  and  a  handful  of  healthy  and  well-con- 
ducted children.  He  has  all  sorts  of  human  ties, 
with  friends,  colleagues,  servants.  He  has  a  com- 
fortable home,  enough  leisure,  a  pleasant  hobby 
or  two.  Life  has  not  been  a  startling  or  a  sur- 
prising thing;  he  has  not  been  crowned  or  vene- 
rated; he  has  not  made  a  fortune  nor  become 
famous ;  but  he  has  a  perfectly  well-defined  place, 
and  an  honest  bit  of  work  behind  him  and  before 
him.  There  is  nothing  splendid  about  it,  but 
there  need  be  nothing  sordid  either.  He  has  had 
his  share,  no  doubt,  of  cares,  griefs,  anxieties; 
and  they  have  taught  him,  perhaps,  that  he  must 
not  count  on  continuance ;  and  he  is  happier  still 
if  he  has  found  the  need  and  proved  the  worth 
of  faith,  to  look  beyond  the  visible  horizon  for 
a  further  dawning.  And  then  if  he  is  wise  he 
settles  down  with  a  certain  restfulness  to  life  and 
duty  and  kindliness.    The  love  of  the  little  circle 


256  Along  the  Road 

multiplies  and  throws  out  fresh  tendrils.  He  sees 
that  the  glitter  and  brightness  that  at  first  allured 
him,  the  hope  of  marvellous  successes  and  great 
surprises,  was  not  really  that  of  which  he  was 
in  search.  He  has  found  his  level  at  last,  and 
with  it  peace. 

But  it  sometimes  takes  a  man  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent way.  He  begins  to  think  he  has  had  no 
luck,  to  envy  and  malign  his  contemporaries  who 
have  made  what  he  calls  a  better  thing  out  of  it 
all.  He  begins  to  be  withdrawn  into  himself  in 
a  sort  of  listless  bitterness,  to  call  his  friend  the 
Canon  a  windbag,  and  his  acquaintance  the 
Member  of  Parliament  a  time-server.  He  begins 
to  think  that  it  is  in  virtue  of  his  own  candour 
and  rugged  honesty  that  he  is  stranded,  and  that 
the  world  only  rewards  quacks  and  opportunists. 
In  these  unwholesome  exercises  he  loses  all  the 
zest  and  flavour  of  life;  he  gets  particular  about 
his  little  comforts,  tyrannical  in  his  family.  He 
becomes  a  man  with  a  grievance,  and  when  he  is 
shunned  as  a  bore,  he  puts  it  down  to  snobbery. 
He  thinks  that  the  world  is  against  him,  when 
it  is  he  that  is  against  the  world. 

Now  the  question  arises  how  this  melancholy 
kind  of  business  can  be  ayoided,  and  it  is  very 
difficult  to  give  an  answer.  Is  it  inevitable  that 
the  world  should  turn  out  a  dreary  place  for  a 
good  many  people:  for  disappointed,  ill-paid  men; 
for  lonely  and  loveless  women;  for  all  suspicious 
and   cross-grained    and   ill-conditioned   persons? 


On  Finding  One's  Level        257 

The  approaches  of  dreariness  are  so  insidious,  and 
so  much  of  it  comes  from  physical  causes,  want 
of  exercise  and  congenial  occupation,  and,  worst 
of  all,  from  want  of  hopefulness.  When  people 
have  drifted  into  this  condition  it  is  hard  to 
see  what  can  uplift  them.  The  cure  must  be- 
f(in,  if  it  begins  at  all,  long  before  the  need  for 
it  is  apparent.  The  mischief  arises,  in  the  first 
place,  from  a  low  kind  of  ambition,  a  desire  for 
material  success  and  comfortable  consideration ; 
and  it  arises  in  the  second  place,  from  living  by 
impulse  rather  than  by  discipline,  from  behaving 
as  one  is  inclined  to  behave,  and  not  as  one  knows 
one  ought  to  behave.  If  a  man  could  find  a  medi- 
cine for  middle-aged  discontent,  it  would  be  the 
greatest  discovery  in  the  world.  Some  people 
find  it  in  religion,  and  it  may  be  said  that  in 
religion  only,  using  the  word  in  its  largest  and 
noblest  sense,  can  the  cure  be  found.  If  a  man 
or  a  woman  in  that  frame  of  mind  can  but  believe 
that  the  life  and  the  soul  of  all  mortals  is  indeed 
dear  to  God,  if  he  can  lay  hold  of  the  blessed 
fact  that  in  a  real  surrender  alone  can  strength 
be  found,  then  peace  can  creep  back  into  the 
shattered  hoi)es  and  the  broken  designs.  The  only 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  realise  that  we  are  here 
to  learn  and  apprehend  something,  and  that  peace 
lies  in  this  alone — not  in  the  fortune  we  have 
made,  or  the  renown  that  we  have  won.  Those 
are  pleasant  and  sunshiny  things  enough,  but  if 
one  has  once  been  confronted  with  a  desperate 


258  Along  the  Road 

sorrow,  one  knows  that  they  have  not  the  smallest 
power  to  distract  or  sustain.  And  in  the  sur- 
render itself  there  is  indeed  a  secret  joy.  The 
soul  folds  its  tired  wings  and  waits  for  the  truth 
that  it  has  missed  to  be  shown  to  it;  then,  and 
not  till  then,  the  smallest  moments  and  incidents 
of  life  begin  to  have  a  significance;  the  message 
comes  fast,  when  the  soul's  complaint  is  hushed 
into  silence.  It  matters  then  little  how  we  are 
placed,  how  humble  our  work  may  be,  because  we 
begin  to  taste  not  the  praise  of  men  but  the  gifts 
of  God.  Then  the  little  stream,  fretted  and 
broken  in  rocky  places  and  narrow  channels, 
creeps  out  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  where 
sound  and  foam  no  longer  are  heard;  and  so  the 
true  level  is  found  at  last. 


THE    INNER    LIFE 

Spring  came  on  ns  to-day  in  the  deep  conntry 
with  a  sudden  leap.  It  has  been  a  long  and 
dreary  winter  here,  sullen,  rainy  weather,  and 
the  earth  seems  soaked  like  a  sponge.  Where- 
ever  one  goes,  in  the  fields,  in  the  lanes,  there 
are  runnels  and  water-breaks  that  I  have  never 
seen  before.  The  flowers  have  been  doing  their 
best  to  appear,  but  the  coverts  and  hedges  are 
very  leafless  as  yet,  though  I  saw  yesterday  that 
lovely  empurpled  flush  over  a  great  wood  of 
birches  that  veils  a  wild  moorland  tract,  which 
tells  of  mounting  sap  and  life  revived.  Yesterday 
the  wind,  which  has  been  buffeting  and  volleying 
up  from  the  south-west,  died  down,  and  to-day 
the  sun  shines  out,  and  everything  seems  glad  to 
be  alive.  It  is  not  wholly  delightful  to  one  who, 
like  myself,  has  the  constitution  of  a  polar  bear! 
The  languor  of  spring  is  a  doubtful  pleasure.  It 
wrung  from  Keble,  in  The  Christian  Year,  the 
only  almost  petulant  complaint  which  that  very 
controlled  writer  ever  indulged  in.     He  writes : 

"  I    sigh,    and    fain    could    wish    this    weariness    were 
death!" 

259 


26o  Along  the  Road 

I  do  not  feel  that!  There  is  something  deli- 
cious about  it,  if  one  is  not  hard  at  work.  But 
I  am  so  wedded  to  what  I  call  my  work,  that 
I  half  grudge  these  days  when  one  cannot  attend 
to  business;  and  yet  if  one  goes  out,  one  knows 
what  Homer  means  when  he  says  that  a  man's 
knees  and  heart  are  loosed.  One  is  unstrung, 
undecided,  vague.  I  do  not  at  all  like  the  languor 
about  three  degrees  this  side  of  faintness,  which 
Keats  said  was  one  of  the  luxuries  of  spring;  I 
like  to  be  judiciously  and  temperately  frozen, 
when  all  that  one  does  is  sharp-set  and  has  a 
keen  edge  to  it.  But  that  is  only  a  private  and 
personal  opinion. 

Yet  to  day,  as  I  walked  in  country  lanes  and 
among  copses,  I  became  aware  that  something 
very  beautiful  and  wonderful  was  going  on.  The 
birds  fluted  deliciously,  the  primroses  peeped  like 
stars  from  the  mossed  roots  of  hedgerow  trees, 
the  pretty  lilac  cuckoo-flower  pushed  up  freshly 
beside  the  runnel.  The  annual  miracle  was  being 
performed,  and  oh,  how  swiftly  and  sweetly  I 
Everything  glad  to  live,  the  tree  unfolding  its 
green  tufts,  the  flower  spreading  itself  in  the  sun. 
The  children  whom  I  met  had  their  hands  full- 
of  blooms.  I  am  afraid  that  as  I  get  older,  I 
like  that  less  and  less.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that 
the  flower  has  a  dim  consciousness  of  its  own, 
and  that  the  unfurling  of  the  bud  must  be  a  joyful 
excitement.  It  must  hurt,  I  think,  to  have  one's 
arrangements  interfered  with  and  one's  pretty 


The  Inner  Life  261 

limbs  torn  away.  Even  if  the  broken  stem  does 
not  actually  ache,  it  must  be  a  disappointment 
not  to  have  the  sun  in  one's  face,  and  to  have 
all  one's  cheerful  plans  for  getting  to  the  light 
swept  away  by  little  hot  fingers.  I  hate  to  see 
woodland  corners  strewed  with  withering  flowers, 
just  picked  for  a  whim,  their  sweet  breath  inhaled, 
and  then  dropped  to  wither. 

Then,  too,  I  think  as  I  walk,  how,  as  the  years 
go  on,  the  springs  begin  to  race  past  one,  like 
telegraph  posts  in  a  train !  How  immensely  long 
the  seasons  of  childhood  were,  yet  now  a  year 
seems  to  count  for  nothing;  and  I  love  life  so 
much  that  it  is  rather  terrible  to  have  the  beauti- 
ful days  race  away  so  fast.  I  spent  last  Easter 
in  the  Cotswolds  with  two  perfectly  cheerful  and 
good-tempered  younger  friends.  It  was  one  of 
those  rare  holidays  when  everything  went  well 
from  start  to  finish ;  day  after  day  entirely  happy 
and  delightful;  and,  what  is  more  rare  still,  I 
knew  that  it  w^as  delightful;  and  yet  it  is  gone 
and  can  never  come  back ;  and  when  one  is  fifty, 
and  finds  oneself  heavier,  slower,  more  elderly 
every  year,  one  knows  that  those  blessed  intervals 
are  precious  things  indeed. 

That  is  one  of  the  puzzles,  why  one  is  pushed 
and  driven  along  so  fast  through  the  days,  with 
everything  hurrying  and  hastening  to  some  un- 
dreamed-of goal.  The  strange  part  of  it  is  that 
one  is  given  the  power  of  imagining  that  it  might 
be  permanent  and  everlasting.    One  sits  in  the 


262  Along  the  Road 

sun,  the  breeze  coming  sweet  through  the  sweet- 
briar  bush,  talking  idly  with  the  friend,  who  un- 
derstands perfectly,  of  memories  and  plans,  of 
things  and  people.  The  kitten  wanders  about 
exploring  the  laurels  with  a  fearful  joy,  and  com- 
ing back  at  intervals  for  a  little  sympathy.  A 
chaffinch  on  the  ivied  wall  chirps  and  chuckles 
at  intervals,  with  a  tiny  torrent  of  song.  So 
surely  it  might  be  for  ever?  A  carriage  drives 
up,  some  one  crosses  the  lawn;  one  has  to  go 
and  be  civil  to  some  callers  to  whom  one  has 
nothing  to  say;  the  post  comes  in  and  there  are 
a  pack  of  letters  to  answer.  Is  it  always  to  be 
so?  Can  one  never  have  the  peace  one  dreams  of? 
Well,  I  do  not  know !  On  a  day  like  this,  when 
I  walk  in  the  quiet  woods,  I  am  conscious  of  a 
strangely  double  nature  at  work  within  me.  On 
the  surface  there  is  a  busy  brain,  full  of  ideas 
and  plans  and  work,  thinking  out  little  problems, 
devising  replies  to  troublesome  questions,  doing 
other  people's  business,  finding  endless  things  to 
do,  struggling  to  put  ideas  into  shape.  Much  of 
it  does  not  seem  particularly  worth  doing,  I  con- 
fess. A  good  deal  of  it  seems  like  the  trouble 
which  nations  take  in  increasing  armaments  in 
the  hope  of  never  having  to  use  them.  If  one 
could  clear  away  all  the  unnecessary  work  of  the 
world,  be  content  with  simple  shelter,  well-worn 
clothes,  inexpensive  meals,  a  few  good  books,  one 
would  have  time  to  live;  and  then  suddenly,  as 
one  reflects,  one  becomes  aware  of  a  self  which 


The  Inner  Life  263 

lies  far  deeper  than  the  busy  brain;  a  self  which 
goes  quietly  and  slowly  on  its  way,  doing  its  own 
secret  business;  something  very  old  and  simple 
and  straightforward,  which  listens  to  one's  rest- 
less plans  and  schemes  as  one  listens  to  the  talk 
of  a  child,  and  knows  that  its  real  life  is  not 
there.  That  deeper,  inner  self  is  what  loves  and 
lives;  it  does  one's  feeling  for  one;  those  strange 
deep  attractions  which  one  feels,  not  too  often, 
for  other  people,  which  seem  so  inevitable  and 
instinctive,  so  far  removed  from  any  question  of 
duty  or  reason,  these  come  from  the  inner  self; 
and  that  dt^eper  self,  too,  is  what  cares  with  a 
kind  of  intent  i)assion  for  certain  scenes  and 
places.  If  I  go,  for  instance,  to  beautiful  moun- 
tain country,  m}'  upper  mind  is  stirred  and 
pleased  and  amused  by  the  strange  forms  of  the 
hills,  their  craggy  faces,  their  sweeping  moor- 
lands, their  falling  streams,  but  the  inner  self 
is  silent  and  unmoved ;  and  yet  when  I  come  to 
walk  as  I  walk  to-day  in  English  country,  with 
wooded  valleys,  broad  ploughlands,  pleasant  home- 
steads, old  cottages,  the  inner  sense  is  all  alive, 
loving  the  scene  with  a  quite  unintelligible  pas- 
sion, crying  out  constantly  with  a  deep  emotion ; 
and  yet  I  can  give  no  sort  of  reason  for  its  fancy. 
I  have  no  associations  with  the  spot,  except  that 
I  have  lived  there  for  a  few  years;  yet  the  inner 
sense  seems  at  home,  and  embraces  all  the  circle 
of  the  hills  with  a  hungering  kind  of  love  that 
would  kiss  the  very  soil,  so  dear  it  is.  ^ 


264  Along  the  Road 

That  inner  self  is  the  spirit  of  man,  I  think, 
with  a  long  life  behind  it  and  before  it;  one  can- 
not mould  it  or  control  it;  it  is  oneself;  it  com- 
mands and  does  not  obey,  it  lives  and  does  not 
reason.  I  do  not  care  if  my  brain  dies,  if  I  lose 
even  my  treasure  of  memories  and  hopes,  if  I 
forget  my  labour  and  suffering;  for  the  inner  self 
hardly  suffers  at  all;  its  joy  and  its  serenity  are 
troubled  by  the  sorrows  and  pains  of  the  body, 
but  only  as  the  wind  ruffles  the  surface  of  the 
sleeping  lake. 

When  it  comes  to  the  deeper  thoughts  of  the 
soul,  it  is  the  outer  self  which  investigates,  per- 
ceives, argues,  weighs,  presents  its  case;  but  it 
is  the  inner  self  which  chooses,  and  which  knows 
what  belongs  to  its  peace.  Why  we  go  astray, 
why  we  are  suspicious,  contentious,  ill-humoured, 
wrathful,  is  because  we  learn,  too  many  of  us,  to 
live  in  the  outer  part  of  our  minds.  Much  of 
our  unhappiness  in  the  world  comes  from  mis- 
taking where  our  real  life  lies.  It  is  easy  to 
make  this  mistake,  if  our  outer  thought  is  vivid 
and  strong;  and  the  unhappiest  people  are  those 
who  are  always  urging  the  suggestions  of  the 
outer  thought  against  the  dictates  of  the  inner 
soul.  What  we  have  to  try  to  do  is  to  live  more 
in  deep,  strong,  satisfying  things;  to  live  more 
by  instinct  and  faith,  and  less  by  argument  and 
scheme.  For  it  is  certain  that  to  live  too  much 
in  our  outer  consciousness  is  to  lose  time,  to 
delay  our  progress;  we  must  dare  to  trust  the 


The  Inner  Life  265 

inner  serenity,  to  act  as  our  heart  tells  ns  to 
act,  not  to  be  afraid  of  quiet  and  simple  life,  not 
to  let  our  reason  and  our  imagination  terrify  us. 
Tlien  our  life  attains  its  true  proportions;  and 
we  can  heal  the  fret  of  life,  by  a  wise  passivity, 
a  recei\ing  of  quiet  impressions,  by  trusting  the 
strong  and  untroubled  soul  within. 

I  was  talking  only  yesterday  to  a  wise  and 
tender-hearted  physician,  who  has  been  a  true 
friend  to  me  for  many  years.  He  was  telling 
me  of  a  talk  he  had  been  having  with  a  brilliant 
man  of  science  about  the  origin  and  development 
of  life.  "  1  said  to  him,"  said  my  friend,  "  that 
he  might  push  back  the  process  of  life  to  the 
ultimate  jelly  of  protoplasm,  the  cell  which  just 
multiplies  itself  and  does  no  more;  there  you 
have  it,  the  primal  vital  impulse — the  indestruc- 
tible force  of  life!  One  cannot  trace  it  back 
further,  but  it  is  there,  and  no  thought  can  ob- 
literate it.  It  exists — it  cannot  end  or  begin;  it 
is  just  the  thought  of  God." 

These  words  came  into  my  head  as  I  walked 
to-day ;  it  was  the  thought  of  God !  It  was  round 
me  on  every  side,  in  the  woods  and  fields,  in  the 
air  and  light,  that  vast  force  of  life:  I  was  of  it, 
included  in  it,  moving  with  it.  How  vain  was 
ray  reluctance,  my  timidity,  my  forecast  of  death, 
my  output  of  schemes  and  plans!  Every  single 
power  and  quality  that  I  had,  it  was  all  a  gift, 
.1  thing  made  and  moved  forward,  a  force  im- 
perishable and  indestructible.    Could  I  not  re- 


266  Along  the  Road 

joice  in  the  thought,  in  the  richness  of  experience, 
the  beauty,  the  interest,  the  emotion,  the  energy 
of  it  all?  ^^Yes,  a  thousand  times!"  said  the 
spirit  within  me.  "  Move  onwards  serenely,  cast 
aside  regret,  cleanse  and  purify  life,  only  be  un- 
dismayed and  hopeful,  as  you  turn  page  after 
page  of  the  revelation  of  God.  That  is  the  mean- 
ing," said  the  soul,  "  of  the  infinite  desires  jow 
feel,  the  emotion  that  would  embrace  everything, 
the  love  that  you  would  offer  to  all  hearts,  if  you 
could  but  draw  near  to  them." 

And  I  think  that  my  spirit  spoke  truly,  for  T 
realised  that  it  was  a  larger  voice  that  I  heard 
than  any  message  of  my  own  that  I  could  devise. 

And  here  I  think  that  one's  will  can  help  one; 
one  can  determine  to  cast  out  of  one's  life  the 
petty  and  distracting  cares  that  bring  one  down 
so  low;  one  cannot  avoid  them,  of  course;  but 
one  can  look  through  them  and  past  them,  not 
linger  over  them,  not  get  entangled  in  them.  One 
must  take  life  as  it  comes;  but  one  must  not  be 
taken  in  by  it,  must  not  make  claims  or  recrimina- 
tions, must  not  be  dissatisfied  or  jealous  or 
solemn  about  it;  it  is  easy  to  feel  that  one  has 
missed  opportunities,  easy  to  grudge  the  successes 
of  one's  comrades,  easy  to  think  one  has  not  had 
fair  chances ;  but  that  is  all  a  false  valuation ; 
it  is  part  of  the  deceit  which  the  outer  self  weaves 
over  its  work,  like  the  web  of  a  spider  over  a 
window-pane.  Every  one  has  the  chance  of  ex- 
perience, and  the  simpler  the  materials  are,  the 


The  Inner  Life  267 

less  temptation  is  there  to  be  deceived.  We  are 
here  to  learn  rather  than  to  teach  to  perceive 
our  losses  rather  than  to  reckon  our  gains. 

" Yes,"  a  reader  may  say,  "it  is  easy  enough 
for  a  comfortable  and  well-to-do  person,  in  a 
quiet  country  house,  to  write  thus.  What  does 
he  know  of  life's  difficulties  and  troubles?" 
Well,  I  can  only  say  quite  plainly  that  I  have 
had  plenty  of  tragic  material  in  my  life — sorrows, 
failures,  long  and  disabling  illness,  disappoint- 
ments, fears,  miseries.  I  believe  that  poverty  is 
the  only  human  trouble  I  have  not  had  to  bear. 
I  have  not  found  life  easy  or  triumphant;  and 
I  may  say  humbly  that  the  only  ease  I  have  ever 
had  is  the  sense  that  I  have  been  borne  along, 
with  all  my  little  dilemmas,  all  my  faults  and 
failures,  in  the  great  and  merciful  hands  of  God ; 
and  now  I  am  not  happy  so  much  as  interested, 
because  I  do  believe  with  all  my  weak  heart  in 
the  richness  and  greatness  in  store  for  every 
single  one  of  us  that  moves  beneath  these  dark 
skies  and  through  these  uncertain  days. 

Yet  here  I  am  in  the  springtime  with  every- 
thing jubilant,  thoughtless,  deliciously  alive  about 
me.  Wliat  folly,  nay  worse  than  folly,  to  cloud 
the  soft  and  serene  air  with  regrets,  question- 
ings, repinings!  If  we  can  but  pierce  through 
the  outer  crust  of  things,  we  shall  find  the  clear 
water  of  life  moving  below;  we  are  in  the  city 
all  the  time,  made  musical  with  the  sound  of 
waters,   whose   foundations   are   wells   of  living 


268  Along  the  Road 

light,  if  only  we  have  eyes  to  see  it.  Here  and 
now  is  our  joy,  in  every  act  and  word,  if  we 
can  but  trust  the  inner  life,  the  inner  heart;  if 
we  can  but  neglect  the  voice  of  fear  and  the 
deceitful  whispers  of  the  world,  and  see  that 
what  matters  is  that  we  should  fill  up  with 
wise  patience  the  little  gaps  of  hope,  as  we 
walk  together,  quietly  and  cheerfully,  along  the 
heavenward  road. 


ON  BEING  SHOCKED 

Many  years  ago  I  hacJ  a  friend  with  whom  I  used 
to  discuss  all  sorts  of  things  with  entire  freedom 
— books,  iKJOple,  places,  events,  ideas.  But  soon 
after  we  left  the  University,  a  change  took  place 
in  him.  He  fell  under  certain  influences — I  need 
not  say  what  they  were;  but  I  became  gradually 
aware,  in  meeting  him,  that  it  was  becoming  in- 
creasingly diflicult  to  talk  over  questions  with 
him.  He  began,  I  thought,  to  draw  a  line  round 
many  things.  If  it  was  a  question  of  talking 
about  events,  he  would  say  that  he  did  not  like 
gossip;  if  a  person  was  mentioned,  he  would  say 
that  So-and-so  was  his  friend,  and  he  would  rather 
not  criticise  him;  if  ideas  came  up,  he  would 
say,  with  obvious  emotion,  that  the  particular 
thought  was  a  very  sacred  one  to  him,  and  that 
he  must  be  excused  from  arguing  about  it.  This 
was  not  done  dogmatically  or  fiercely,  but  gently 
and  even  shamefacedly.  The  result,  however,  was 
that  our  intercourse  lost  all  its  frankness,  and 
for  me  most  of  its  pleasure,  and  faded  away,  as 
pleasant  things  must  sometimes  fade.  I  do  not 
think  our  mutual  regard  was  altered.     I  would 

269 


270  Along  the  Road 

have  trusted  him  implicitly,  and,  if  need  had  been, 
I  would  have  made  an}^  call  upon  his  friendship, 
dictated  or  allowed  by  affection,  with  a  perfect 
confidence  that  it  would  be  generously  met;  and 
I  am  sure  he  would  have  done  the  same  with  me. 

But  the  freedom  of  talk,  of  discussion,  of  state- 
ment was  gone,  simply  because  I  was  always 
afraid  of  wounding  some  MBtotibility  or  touch- 
ing some  shrinking  emoti(^|^ 

I  do  not  say  this  to  prove  that  I  have  retained 
an  open  mind,  and  I  am  quite  prepared  to  be- 
lieve that  he  is  right  and  that  I  am  wrong.  The 
question  really  is  not  to  what  extent  one  is  en- 
titled to  hold  things  sacred,  because  I  do  not 
dispute  any  one's  right  to  do  that;  but  to  what 
extent  one  is  entitled  to  claim  the  silence  of 
others,  or  their  assent  to  what  one  holds  sacred. 
The  point  is  whether  one  loses  or  gains  by  such 
a  process,  and  whether  one  may  claim  to  hold 
opinions  in  such  a  way  as  to  entitle  one  to 
disapprove  of  or  to  be  pained  by  any  species  of 
disagreement. 

Of  course,  it  is  all  a  question  of  where  the  line 
is  to  be  drawn.  No  one  could  possibly  claim  to 
hold  all  his  own  beliefs,  opinions,  and  views  so 
sacred  that  he  could  not  bear  to  have  any  of  them 
disputed  or  called  in  question.  I  doubt  myself 
whether  it  is  wise  or  right  to  hold  any  opinion 
at  all  so  sacred  as  to  claim  that  no  one  shall 
venture  to  disagree  with  it;  there  are  many  things 
in  the  world  that  must  be  only  a  matter  of  sub- 


On  Being-  Shocked  271 

jective  opinion,  and  of  which  no  objective  proof 
is  possible.  Some  of  the  best  things  in  the  world 
— religion,  beauty,  affection — are  of  that  nature. 
One  may  have  a  serene  and  unshaken  conviction 
on  these  points,  and  one  may  desire  with  all  one's 
heart  that  others  may  share  one's  conviction. 
But,  after  all,  they  are  only  deductions  from 
one's  own  experience,  and  others  may  have  dif- 
ferent experiences  and  draw  different  deductions. 
It  seems  to  me  that  no  advance  is  possible,  if 
any  one  can  claim  to  be  infallible.  When  it 
comes  to  discussing  an  opinion,  I  am  disposed 
to  give  full  weight  to  anything  which  may  be 
urged  against  it,  and  I  wish  to  hear  any  valid 
objection  to  it.  I  may  be  converted  and  per- 
suaded, but  I  do  not  mean  to  be  dictated  to.  I 
do  not  think  it  is  desirable,  on  any  subject  in  the 
world,  to  make  up  one's  convictions  into  a  bundle, 
as  early  in  life  as  possible,  and  to  admit  of  no 
rearrangement  or  addition.  The  true  consistency 
is  not  to  hold  to  an  opinion,  but  to  be  ready  to 
change  it,  if  one  sees  reason  to  do  so. 

Many  of  the  things  that  my  friend  said  to  me 
in  the  old  days  were  true  and  fruitful ;  I  saw  his 
point  of  view,  and  perceived  that  he  had  reasons 
on  his  side;  but  one  never  arrives  at  any  com- 
prehensiveness at  all  if  one  cannot  admit  of  any 
compromise.  I  remember  one  argument  I  had 
with  my  friend  when  the  ground  was  getting 
limited.  I  said  to  him,  "  1  do  not  agree  with 
your  opinion,  as  I  understand   it.     If  you   will 


272  Along  the  Road 

explain  it,  perhaps  I  shall  feel  differently." 
^'  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  explain  it.  The  thing 
seems  to  me  so  unquestionable  and  so  sacred  that 
I  cannot  even  risk  speaking  of  it  to  any  one  who 
does  not  share  my  conviction.  It  would  be  a 
kind  of  profanity  to  express  my  thoughts  on  the 
subject." 

That  seems  to  me  like  a  deliberate  sacrifice  of 
all  frankness,  a  decision  that  one  will  not  share 
or  compare  one's  experiences  at  all.  We  must 
be  all  agreed  that  there  is  a  great  and  deep  ele- 
ment of  uncertainty  and  mystery  about  life. 
One's  own  experience  must  be  limited;  and  the 
only  hope  of  getting  at  anything  real  is  not  to 
measure  everything  by  one's  own  rule  and  -line, 
but  to  see  how  others  make  their  measurements. 
The  people  I  have  got  most  out  of  in  every  way 
are  the  people  with  clear  minds,  who  are  willing 
to  listen  to  one's  own  views,  and  to  say  frankly 
what  they  themselves  think.  Impatience,  con- 
tempt, derisiveness,  are  the  qualities  which  hinder 
and  obstruct.  What  helps  things  along  is  frank 
sympathy,  and  the  recognition  of  the  right  of 
others  to  differ  from  oneself. 

But  then  it  may,  of  course,  be  said :  "  Oh,  but 
if  one  feels  strongly  about  a  subject  one  must 
be  allowed  to  express  oneself  strongly — that  is 
how  moral  victories  are  won !  "  I  do  not  believe 
it.  It  may  be  good  for  a  weaker  nature  to  follow 
in  the  track  of  a  stronger  will  for  a  time.  But 
the  essence  of  life  and  progress  is  some  time  or 


On  Being  Shocked  273 

other  to  have  real  opinions  of  one's  own^  and  not 
to  have  adopted  the  opinions  of  others  wholesale. 

And  so  I  believe  that  if  a  man  finds  himself 
increasingly  impatient  of  opposition,  more  in- 
clined to  accnse  of  stupidity  and  irreverence 
those  who  hold  different  views,  more  liable  to 
be  shocked,  he  should  not  welcome  it  as  a  sign 
of  a  firmer  grasp  of  principles,  but  as  a  sign  that 
he  is  losing  the  power  of  brotherly  and  Christian 
sympath}'.  The  danger  and  the  injury  of  dogma- 
tism is  so  awful,  the  power  it  has  of  alienating 
others,  the  selfish  withdrawal  into  some  private 
stronghold  of  thought  which  underlies  it,  are  so 
disastrous,  that  its  apparent  gains  are  riot  to  be 
reckoned  in  comparison  with  its  inevitable  losses. 

Hut  will  not,  it  may  be  said,  this  attempt  at 
comi)rehensive  sympathy  weaken  our  decisiveness 
and  our  resolution?  Not  at  all!  It  is  the  high- 
est sign  of  strength  to  be  chivalrously  gentle; 
and  in  order  to  be  potent,  strength  should  be 
unconscious  of  itself.  The  moment  that  we  feel 
that  we  can  bend  others  to  our  will,  that  we  can 
silence  them,  that  we  can  make  them  act  as  we 
wish,  that  moment  we  are  in  the  grip  of  a  terrible 
temptation;  and  what  makes  it  the  more  subtle 
J I  ttMMptation  is  that  we  may  be  so  conscious  of 
uiir  own  pure  and  high  intentions.  We  maj^  have 
to  act  decisively  and  firmly,  but  if  we  extort  sub- 
mission, we  must  be  careful  to  give  our  reasons; 
and  if  it  is  sometimes  inevitable  that  we  should 
insist   upon    obedience,    we   ought   to    recognise 


274  Along  the  Road  * 

that  it  is  obedience  and  not  agreement  that  we 
demand. 

And  then,  too,  what  havoc  it  makes  of  real 
relations  with  people  if  this  closeness  of  thought 
prevails!  I  am  not  speaking  of  mere  acquaint- 
ances, with  whom  some  reticence  must  probably 
be  practised;  but  even  there  I  am  not  sure;  I 
think  that  the  closer  one  can  get  to  all  people, 
the  more  one  can  open  one's  mind  and  heart  to 
them,  the  better  for  us  all.  What  a  comfort  it 
is  to  meet  a  man  or  a  woman,  and  to  find  that  one 
can  dispense  with  all  the  posturing  and  fencing 
and  the  other  practices  of  polite  society,  and  talk 
at  once  openly  and  frankly  about  the  things  for 
which  one  cares.  People  who  can  do  that  have 
a  simply  marvellous  power  of  evoking  the  best 
out  of  other  people.  No  one  wants  to  live  in  an 
unreal  world ;  the  caution  and  timidity  which  we 
feel  and  show  is  all  an  old  survival  from  the  time 
when  life  was  made  up  of  strife  and  enmity,  and 
when  one  dared  not  say  what  one  felt  or  thought 
from  a  savage  kind  of  fear  that  it  might  be  used 
against  one.  A  certain  amount  of  this  reticence 
is  inevitable  in  the  case  of  young  people,  because 
young  people  are  more  merciless  and  more  deri- 
sive, and  altogether  more  uncivilised  than  older 
people.  But  as  one  gets  older,  the  more  one  can 
dispense  with  false  shame  and  selfish  caution  and 
mistrust  of  others  the  better. 

I  sat  the  other  night  at  dinner  next  a  famous 
man;  he  was  perfectly  courteous  and  kindly,  but 


On  Being  Shocked  275 

he  would  not  show  me  what  was  in  his  mind  at 
all;  perhaps  he  thought  me  impertinent  or  in- 
discreet for  trying  to  turn  the  talk  on  to  matters 
of  intimate  belief  and  opinion.  I  do  not  know! 
but  he  uttered  no  sort  of  personal  preference  and 
made  no  frank  admissions ;  till  I  felt  at  last  that 
T  might  as  well  have  sat  by  a  fine  statue,  all 
marble  within.  And  then,  as  good  fortune  would 
have  it,  I  fell  in  after  dinner  with  another  man, 
famous  too,  w^ho  engaged  with  ease  and  humour 
and  zest  in  a  pleasant  discussion  about  the  due 
balance  of  society  and  solitude,  and  said  a  whole 
host  of  refreshing  and  charming  things,  which 
did  me  good  to  hear,  and  some  of  which  I  hope 
to  remember.  He  did  not  give  me  the  impression 
of  reflecting  whether  I  was  too  unimportant  a 
person  to  be  made  the  recipient  of  his  confidences. 
He  just  made  the  most  of  an  easy  human  prox- 
imity, and  shared  his  experiences  and  beliefs 
frankly  and  charmingly,  so  that  I  recognised  at 
once  a  fellow-pilgrim,  who  knew  himself  to  be 
bound  upon  the  same  interesting,  wonderful,  de- 
lightful, mysterious  journey  as  myself,  and  who 
was  ready  to  beguile  the  tedium  of  the  way  with 
discourse  of  adventures  and  hopes  and  desires.  To 
meet  others  cheerfully,  directh^  unsuspiciously; 
not  to  be  anxious  to  make  one's  own  opinions 
])revail — that  is  the  secret  of  all  the  influence 
worth  having. 


HOMELY  BEAUTY 

Our  code  and  schedule  of  beauty  is,  I  often  feel, 
a  very  formal  affair.  Either  we  are  afraid  or 
ashamed  to  differ  from  received  opinions,  or  we 
have  never  thought  of  revising  the  code  we 
adopted  in  our  youth,  or  we  do  not  really  look 
at  things,  or  we  do  not  care  about  beauty  at  all. 
For  one  or  other  of  these  very  insufficient  reasons, 
we  go  on  dully  and  tamely,  trying  no  experiments, 
indulging  heavy  habits  of  thought.  I,  who  hold 
inconsistency  to  be  a  high  virtue — by  which  I 
mean  the  power  of  changing  one's  mind  for  suf- 
ficient reasons— think  it  a  real  duty  to  try  to 
have  new  points  of  view,  and  to  be  constantly 
taking  stock  of  opinions,  to  see  if  I  really  hold 
them,  if  they  really  grow  there,  or  if  they  have 
only  been  stuck  into  my  mind,  like  flowers  into 
a  vase. 

Now  Ruskin  made  such  an  outcry  against  all 
factories  and  foundries,  all  places  where  labour 
is  applied  on  a  large  scale,  involving  high  chim- 
neys and  torrents  of  smoke,  that  the  average 
Briton  takes  for  granted  that  the  whole  thing  is 
ugly  and  horrible.  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
276 


Homely  Beauty  277 

this  is  a  gigantic  mistake,  and  that  there  is  a 
\in-y  real  majesty  abont  these  big  structures, 
with  their  volleying  chimneys,  their  long  rows 
of  windows,  their  grumbling  and  rattling  gear. 
'IMiey  are  quite  unpretentious,  in  the  first  place. 
They  make  no  attempt  to  conceal  that  they  are 
doing  the  work  of  the  world.  It  may  be  dirty 
work,  but  it  has  to  be  done,  and  thus  they  have 
the  first  beauty  of  appropriateness.  They  are 
like  great  fortresses  of  industry,  and  have  all 
the  solemn  effect  of  size.  I  do  not  think  they 
\v<^u]d  be  imi)roved  by  having  rows  of  Gothic 
\x  indows  and  a  chimney  built  like  Giotto's  cam- 
T  nnile,  because  they  would  be  pretending  to 
something  else.  It  rather  sickens  me  when  I 
.  i'nr  enthusiastic  people  compare  the  tower,  let 
ns  say,  of  the  town  hall  at  Siena  to  a  lily  on  its 
stem.  It  is  a  tower,  and  it  ought  to  be  like  a 
tower,  and  not  like  a  lily,  the  architecture  of 
which  is  quite  a  different  affair.  I  think  it  is 
(jiiite  fair  to  put  a  little  ornament  into  a  chimney, 
and  a  smooth  cylinder  of  white  brick,  a  mere  tube 
set  up  on  end,  is  almost  too  business-like  an 
affair,  though  I  am  not  at  all  prepared  to  con- 
cede that  it  is  necessarily  hideous.  There  is  a 
(himney  in  London,  of  some  electrical  works,  I 
think,  near  Regent's  Park,  which  has  a  graceful 
floriation  of  masonry  at  the  top,  which  I  think 
is  a  very  fine  thing  indeed;  and  on  a  sunshiny 
morning  in  London,  when  it  is  volleying  steam, 
and  stands  up  over  that  soft  golden  haze  which 


278  Along  the  Road 

one  sees  only  on  a  bright  day  in  a  many-chimneyed 
town,  it  has  a  charm  about  it  which  one  need 
not  go  to  Italy  to  capture. 

But  I  should  like  to  take  a  much  more  homely 
and  workaday  affair  than  that.  If  any  one  who 
reads  these  lines  knows  the  London  and  North- 
western Railway  well,  he  Avill  remember,  on  pass- 
ing out  of  Carnforth  Station,  an  immense  factory, 
which  I  believe  to  be  an  iron-foundry.  It  is  a 
collection  of  great  iron  towers,  stained  and 
streaked  with  red  dust,  with  strange  congloba- 
tions  of  huge  tubes,  wheels  whirring  on  lofty 
stages  of  spidery  rods,  high  galleries,  long  shoots, 
towering  scaffolds,  all  rising  above  clustered  sheds 
and  sidings  and  piles  of  ore  and  shunted  trucks. 
At  night  it  is  ablaze  with  great  fires  roaring 
and  streaming  into  the  air.  The  place  by  day  is 
grim,  gaunt,  filthy,  laborious-looking.  To  a  mild 
literary  man  like  myself,  it  is  an  entirely  mys- 
terious building;  I  have  no  idea  what  all  the 
tubes,  cisterns,  wheels,  scaffoldings  mean;  but  it 
is  plain  that  something  very  real  and  vigorous 
is  going  on  there.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  a 
beauty  of  a  very  real  and  impressive  kind.  It  is 
enormously  big  and  imposing,  the  shapes  are  gro- 
tesque, bizarre,  almost  terrifying.  It  has  a  real 
solemnity — I  had  almost  said  sublimity — about 
it,  with  its  plated  iron  towers  and  its  frenzied 
apparatus.  It  stirs  many  emotions — wonder, 
amazement,  and  the  fear,  as  Ecclesiastes  says, 
"  of  that  which  is  high."    The  very  outlines  of  it 


Homely  Beauty  279 

have  a  majesty  of  tlieir  own.  I  only  know  that 
1  look  out  for  it  with  delight,  and  rivet  my  gaze 
upon  it  as  long  as  it  is  visible. 

When  I  aired  these  views  to  an  accomplished 
woman  of  my  acquaintance  who  lives  In  the  Lake 
< ountry,  and  who  has  a  real  passion  for  hills  and 
(lags  and  running  waters  (to  which  I  also  lay 
(laim),  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  smiled,  and 
said  I  was  too  fond  of  being  paradoxical.  I  could 
not  i)ersuade  her  that  I  meant  what  I  said.  She 
finally  alleged  that  the  fumes  killed  the  vegeta- 
tion all  round,  to  which  T  replied  that  the  entire 
earth  was  not  meant  to  be  covered  with  vegeta- 
tion, and  that  after  all  it  was  only  what  farmers 
(lid  in  a  different  way. 

I  do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  I  want  to  intrude 
iron-foundries  into  all  the  loveliest  places  of  the 
earth.  Such  a  building  would  not  look  well  be- 
tween Rydal  Water  and  Grasmere;  but  that  is 
because  it  would  interfere  with  the  harmony  of 
the  scene.  But  such  buildings  have  their  place, 
and  I  contend  that  in  their  place  they  are,  or 
(an  be,  beautiful. 

I  travelled  the  other  day  on  a  misty  morning 
f?om  Cambridge  to  St.  Pancras.  At  Cambridge, 
(lose  to  the  station,  is  an  immense  mill,  consisting 
of  two  many-storied  buildings  of  white  brick,  now 
much  weathered,  connected  by  a  high  gallery. 
The  architect  has  put  a  little  finish  into  them, 
and  one  of  the  buildings  terminates  with  a 
classical  pediment  which  has  real  grace.     But  I 


28o  Along  the  Road 

am  sure  that  the  building  has  a  fine  quality  of 
its  own,  given  by  its  height,  its  size,  its  purpose- 
fulness.  At  least  I  feel  the  beauty  of  it — I  sup- 
pose that  is  the  most  one  can  claim — and  I  think 
that  other  people  would  find  it  beautiful  too,  if 
it  were  not  the  dull  fashion  to  think  otherwise, 
and  therefore  never  to  look  at  it  with  the  idea 
of  being  pleased  by  it.  All  that  journey  was  full 
for  me  of  the  same  sort  of  beauties.  The  great 
black  mouths  of  tunnels,  solid-arched,  low-hung, 
with  the  steam  floating  about  them,  the  huge  gas- 
reservoirs,  standing  up  inside  the  filigree  screens 
of  ironwork ;  the  vast  span  of  St.  Pancras  station 
— and  I  am  sure,  by  the  way,  that  the  St.  Pancras 
Hotel  is  a  building  which  with  an  added  touch 
of  age  will  be  a  thing  which  travellers  will  come 
from  far  to  see;  all  these  things  in  the  misty  air 
had  a  real  grandeur,  and  grandeur  not  diminished 
for  me  because  they  stood  for  work  and  life  and 
energy,  and  were  not  lazy,  luxurious,  artistic 
affairs,  built  to  please  the  eyes  of  leisurely 
persons. 

There  is  a  huge  factory  near  the  line — I  do 
not  remember  exactly  where — which  has  a  pro- 
digious tower  of  wood,  stained  and  streaked  with 
the  drippings  of  some  boiling  fluid,  which  seems 
to  me  to  be  a  really  magnificent  affair  in  outline, 
structure,  and  texture;  and  I  believe  that  if  one 
only  can  regard  it  candidly  and  expectantly,  one 
can  detect,  and  be  impressed  by,  its  artistic 
quality. 


Homely  Beauty  281 

I  do  not  mean  that  one  should  exactly  set  up 
factories  as  rivals,  for  aesthetic  sensation,  to 
(lothic  cathedrals.  Ely,  rising  on  a  spring  morn- 
ing above  its  apple-orchards,  is  a  lovely  object 
enough,  though  I  am  barbarous  enough  to  object 
to  its  fussy  lantern,  and  to  believe  that  nothing 
at  all  can  justify  and  nothing  but  age  make 
tolerable,  rows  of  Gothic  pinnacles — spikes  of 
stone  grotesquely  and  fretfully  crocketed.  The 
vast  western  tower  of  Ely,  so  quiet  and  dark 
Mud  simple,  is  worth  fifty  churches  in  the  dec- 
orated style,  which  I  believe  to  have  been  truly 
decadent  in  its  avoidance  of  plain  spaces,  and  its 
])acking  of  every  inch  with  restless  and  often  un- 
meaning ornament.  And  at  Ely  I  can  see  a  real 
beauty  in  the  great  polygonal  brick  water  tower, 
with  its  intricate  arches  and  severe  outlines. 

I  am  sure  it  is  a  dilettante  business  to  confine 
our  sense  of  beauty  to  Gothic  vaultings  and 
traceries,  lovely  as  they  often  are.  I  believe  in 
my  heart  of  hearts  that  classical  architecture, 
such  as  St.  Paul's,  is  a  finer,  nobler,  more  stately 
thing,  in  its  solid  appropriateness  to  human  need, 
its  grave  dignity,  than  any  Gothic  building,  which 
is  often  in  fact  a  kind  of  confectionery  in  stone. 
As  one  gets  older  one  loves  plainness,  simplicity, 
proportion,  stillness,  usefulness,  better  and  better, 
jind  comes  more  and  more  to  mistrust  ornament 
and  decoration.  But  the  point  is  to  enlarge  and 
extend  our  sense  of  what  is  beautiful  and 
grand.     Of  course  when  one  is  dealing  with  things 


282  Along  the  Road 

like  pictures,  stained-glass,  wood-carving — all  the 
minuter  and  more  delicate  works  of  the  human 
hand  and  mind,  one  is  face  to  face  with  a  dif- 
ferent question.  They  are  deliberately  ingenious 
and  fanciful  things,  and  grace  is  the  first  quality 
we  demand  of  them.  But  when  it  comes  to  build- 
ings, we  are  brought  into  touch  with  a  different 
range  of  emotions;  we  must  think  what  they 
mean,  what  they  stand  for,  what  part  of  human 
life  "and  toil  they  represent.  And  I  for  one  think 
an  old  homestead,  among  its  ricks  and  barns  and 
byres,  a  far  more  beautiful  and  moving  thing 
than  an  elaborate  manor-house  or  villa,  in  park 
or  garden,  because  the  latter  stands  for  idle 
leisure,  and  the  former  for  human  life  and  work. 
The  things  that  are  made  for  use  are  what  please 
best,  and  not  the  things  that  are  made  for  pleas- 
ure; and  if  the  homely  things  have  just  enough 
touch  of  beauty  about  them  to  show  that  the 
maker  loved  his  work,  and  took  a  pride  in  it,  and 
desiied  to  make  it  seemly  as  well  as  useful,  then 
I  think  we  have  the  most  moving  quality  of  all. 

When  one  sees,  in  Northern  or  Western  river 
valleys,  old  factories  of  mellowed  brick,  with 
quaint  wooden  galleries  above  the  stream,  with 
white  casements,  and  perhaps  a  pretty  pillared 
cupola  for  the  bell,  one  sees  at  once  that  they 
are  altogether  pleasing  and  harmonious  things, 
and  the  dirt  and  litter  of  them  a  perfectly  natural 
and  not  ungraceful  mess ;  I  suppose  that  the  cul- 
tured dilettantes  of  the  day,  when  such  places 


Homely  Beauty  283 

were  built,  turned  up  their  noses  at  them  and 
thought  them  horrible.  We  are,  of  course,  very 
much  at  the  mercy  of-  antiquity  just  uow,  and 
i'ven  if  we  build  a  new  building,  we  do  all  that 
we  can  to  render  it  old  in  hue  and  shape;  but 
I  think  that  is  a  false  and  mean  standard.  If  a 
)>lace  is  solid,  strong,  and  perfectly  adapted  to 
its  purpose,  there  is  no  reason  whatever  why  it 
should  not  be  beautiful;  and  I  am  not  being  in 
the  least  paradoxical  when  I  say  that  as  I  pass 
tlirough  the  manufacturing  districts  of  England 
r  see  many  buildings  of  a  perfectly  commonplace 
kind,  huge  cubes  of  brick,  with  tiers  of  windows 
and  a  great  chimney  towering  over  all,  which 
give  me  a  sense  of  real  pleasure  and  satisfaction, 
because  the  thing  is  there  for  a  purpose,  and  has 
been  planned  and  built  with  that  purpose  in  mind. 
I  do  not  hope  to  convert  every  one  to  this  view; 
but  T  claim  to  have  this  advantage,  that  I  have 
a  wider  range  of  pleasure  thus  than  if  I  simply 
thought  the  whole  abominable  and  hideous,  and 
pined  for  waterfalls  and  peaks.  Let  me  be  more 
lionest  still,  and  say  that  though  mountain  scenery 
lias  an  ineffable  charm,  it  seems  to  me  to  have 
also  a  certain  intoxicating  quality  which  is  not 
I)urely  wholesome;  I  weary  of  it  far  sooner  than 
I  weary  of  a  simple  pastoral  country,  with  woods 
and  pastures  and  hamlets.  Of  that  T  cannot  con- 
ceive ever  wearying  at  all.  The  English  village, 
as  one  sees  it  here  in  Cambridgeshire,  with  its 
orchards,  its  white-walled  thatched  cottages,  its 


284  Along  the  Road 

simple  church,  its  manor-farm,  with  the  pastures 
all  about  it,  and  the  pure  line  of  the  low  wold 
above  it,  seems  to  me  the  sweetest  and  tenderest 
kind  of  thing  that  one  can  see  anywhere,  because 
it  has  all  grown  up  so  gently  and  naturally  out 
of  human  love  and  toil,  in  the  quiet  places  of  the 
earth.  But  even  so,  I  stick  to  my  factories  too, 
because  they  have  grown  up  naturally  enough, 
and  are  knit  up  with  human  life  and  endeavour. 
This  is  not  a  plea  for  one  sort  of  beauty  as  against 
another;  it  is  only  a  plea  for  men  and  women  to 
use  their  eyes  and  hearts  a  little  more  simply; 
not  to  be  deluded  into  thinking  that  beauty  lies 
only  in  costly  splendour  and  elaborate  ornament, 
but  in  the  frank  expression  of  use  and  order  and 
work,  and  all  the  other  simple  elements  which 
make  up  life  and  peace  and  happiness. 


BRAIN  WAVES 

I  WAS  sitting  a  short  time  ago  reading  a  letter 
in  an  arm-chair.  Close  to  me  at  my  left  hand 
was  sitting  a  friend  at  a  desk,  writing.  I  said 
to  him,  "  I  have  just  had  a  very  interesting  and 

pathetic  letter  from  B ."     He  stared  at  me 

for  a  moment,  with  a  look  of  such  surprise,  that 
I  said,  "  What  is  the  matter?  "  He  said  :  "  This 
is  really  too  extraordinary;  I  had  not  thought  of 

I* for  months.     But  the  moment  you  began 

to  speak,  before  you  mentioned  his  name,  it 
darted  into  my  mind." 

This  is  only  a  rather  striking  instance  of  a 
phenomenon  which  probably  most  people  have,  at 
one  time  or  other,  experienced;  a  direct  com- 
munication of  thought,  without  any  verbal  inter- 
change, with  some  friend  or  acquaintance.  The 
particular  form  in  which  I  often  experience  it  is 
to  think  persistently  and  without  any  obvious 
reason  of  some  friend  whom  T  perhaps  have  not 
seen  for  weeks,  and  on  the  following  day  to  re- 
ceive a  letter  from  him.  But  it  takes  place  most 
frequenth'  when  one  is  in  close  proximity,  and 
many  people  must  know  how  one  often,  in  talking 

285 


286  Along  the  Road 

with  a  friend,  anticipates  his  unuttered  thought. 
This  latter  phenomenon  may  no  doubt  partly 
arise  from  familiarity  with  a  friend's  method  of 
thought,  and  be  of  the  nature  of  unconscious 
inference. 

I  think  it  may  be  said  that  no  reasonable  per- 
son who  cares  to  study  the  transactions  of  the 
Psychical  Society  can  possibly  doubt  that  this 
force,  which  is  now  scientifically  called  telepathy, 
exists,  though  at  present  we  know  very  little 
about  it.  It  seems  clear  that  if  several  people 
attempt  to  focus  their  thought  upon  some  pre- 
determined object,  and  to  read  it  into  the  mind 
of  one  who  possesses  the  telepathic  faculty,  the 
latter  can  reproduce  a  sketch  of  the  object  which 
is  unmistakable,  even  though  the  person  acted 
upon  may  not  be  aware  what  he  or  she  is  draw- 
ing. There  is  one  recorded  experiment,  which 
appeared  to  me,  when  published,  to  be  entirely 
convincing.  The  party  agreed  upon  the  object 
which  they  wished  to  have  reproduced.  The 
medium,  a  girl,  was  then  introduced.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  drew  on  her  paper  a  thing  like  a  melon, 
with  an  elongated  stalk.  She  then  drew  four 
parallel  lines  roughly  down  the  centre  of  it.  She 
then  hesitated,  and  finally  drew,  on  each  side  of 
the  melon,  but  outside  of  its  boundary  line,  a 
large  capital  S.  She  had  not  the  least  idea  what 
it  represented.  But  the  object  which  had  been 
agreed  upon  was  a  violin.  The  melon  and  stalk 
were   the   instrument,   the   four   lines   were   the 


Brain  Waves  287 

strings,  and  the  letter  S  was  the  cuts,  which 
are  roughly  like  that  letter,  and  are  to  be  seen 
in  any  violin  placed  on  each  side  of  the  strings, 
for  the  sake  of  resonance.  One  could  imagine 
the  unpractised  operators  going  over  the  de- 
tails in  their  minds.  "  There  is  the  violin  and 
its  handle;  there  are  the  strings;  there  are  the 
two  cuts,  like  the  letter  S,  on  each  side  of 
the  strings."  The  point  is  that  though  the 
scrawl  was  in  itself  unintelligible,  yet  all  the 
salient  features  of  the  instrument  were  rudely 
reproduced. 

The  thing  itself  is  not  nearly  as  antecedently 
incredible  as  the  telephone  or  the  Marconigram. 
If  a  man  had  prophesied  a  hundred  years  ago 
that  one  could  hear  a  friend's  voice  through  a 
wire  across  the  Atlantic,  or  that  without  any 
connecting  wire  an  electrical  message  could  be 
shot  into  the  air  and  picked  up  by  another  iso- 
lated machine  many  miles  away,  he  would  have 
been  considered  a  ridiculous  romancer.  And  yet 
it  is  not  inconceivable  that,  if  the  laws  of  tele- 
pathy are  developed  and  investigated,  two  people 
may  some  day  be  able  to  exchange  thoughts  at 
a  distance  without  visible  or  audible  symbols. 
The  appearances  of  people  to  their  friends  at  the 
moment  of  death,  a  phenomenon  the  recurrence 
of  which  is  quite  beyond  the  possibility  of  scien- 
tific doubt,  is  a  manifestation  of  the  power.  We 
know  nothing  of  the  medium  of  communication, 
or  of  the  conditions  under  which  it  is  possible, 


288  Along  the  Road 

but  it  would  seem  that  some  harmony  or  sym- 
pathy of  thought  is  an  essential  basis,  a  fact 
which  has  its  material  complement  in  the  har- 
mony of  the  Marconi  apparatus. 

When  the  first  experiments  in  electricity  were 
made,  there  were  a  number  of  scattered  phe- 
nomena, such  as  the  lightning,  the  attraction  of 
rubbed  amber,  the  sparks  of  the  cat's  back,  which 
were  all  familiar  and  all  unexplained.  No  one 
had  ever  thought  of  attributing  all  of  these  to 
one  common  cause,  while  no  one  dreamed  of  the 
possible  adaptability  of  the  underlying  force  to 
human  uses.  If  some  one  had  suggested  that  the 
force  evolved  from  the  rubbing  of  amber,  for 
which  the  Greek  word  is  -^XsxTpov,  would  some 
day  drive  engines,  light  houses,  and  transmit  in- 
stantaneous messages  from  continent  to  conti- 
nent, he  would  have  been  considered  a  mere 
fantastic  dreamer.  It  may  well  be  that  phenomena 
quite  familiar  to  us  now,  such  as  national  move- 
ments, the  panics  that  spread  like  lightning 
through  a  crowd,  the  therapeutic  influence  of 
suggestion,  the  effects  of  mesmerism,  may  all  be 
the  result  of  some  extensive  spiritual  force,  the 
developments  of  which  may  have  extraordinary 
and  momentous  effects  upon  the  human  race.  I 
have  no  sort  of  doubt  myself  that  we  are  on  the 
eve  of  very  curious  discoveries  in  the  psychical 
legion,  which  may  ultimately  revolutionise  our 
ideas  of  character-development  and  race-progress. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  think  that  the  investiga- 


Brain  Waves  289 

tion  of  these  deep  secrets  must  be  left  to  trained 
scientific  intellects.  They  are  not  things  for 
amateurs  to  dabble  in.  All  the  ill-advised  tam- 
pering with  occultism,  all  attempts  to  arrive  at 
conclusions  by  impulsive  short-cuts,  all  rash  ex- 
l)eriments  with  psychical  forces  seem  to  me  not 
only  risky,  but  positively  dangerous.  It  resembles 
tlie  meddling  of  children  with  corrosive  acids  and 
deadly  poisons.  It  is  very  easy  indeed  for  a 
weak  and  credulous  nature  to  bemuse  itself  into 
a  condition  of  fantastic  susceptibility,  which  may 
wreck  both  intellect  and  happiness.  The  forces, 
whatever  they  are,  are  deeply  mysterious,  but 
their  exact  limits  will  probably  some  day  be 
known  and  defined.  They  are  not  ascertained, 
but  they  are  doubtless  ascertainable.  I  believe 
myself  that  all  tampering  with  the  phenomena 
of  so-called  spiritualism  by  unscientific  and  sen- 
sitive j)eople  is  both  a  symptom  or  a  cause  of 
morbidity,  and  should  be,  as  far  as  possible,  re- 
sisted and  checked.  On  the  other  hand,  I  think 
that  honour  is  due  to  tliose  of  trained  observa- 
tion and  well-balanced  minds,  who  set  themselves 
seriously  to  obtain  and  investigate  such  evidence 
as  is  available. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  perfectly  justifiable 
for  people  of  special  temperament,  not  indeed 
to  court  such  experiences,  but  to  record  them 
as  faithfully  as  they  can.  Indeed,  if  a  psy- 
chical exi)erience  befalls  an  entirely  sane  and 
normal  person,  it  is  advisable  that  it  should  be 


290  Along  the  Road 

carefullY  noted  and  sent  to  the  Psychical  So- 
ciety, which  undertakes  the  investigation  of  these 
problems. 

My  own  belief  is  that  just  as  our  globe  has  a 
material  connection,  so  that  the  displacement  of 
the  smallest  particle  has  an  actual  effect  upon 
the  whole  mass,  there  is  probably  also  a  spiritual 
connection,  so  that  every  thought  we  think  and 
every  idea  we  conceive  has  some  effect  upon  the 
whole  spiritual  community.  We  can  no  more  be 
isolated  in  mind  than  we  can  be  isolated  in  body; 
we  feel,  indeed,  our  own  separate  existence;  but 
every  individual's  bodily  frame  is  acted  upon  by 
a  whole  host  of  attractions  and  vibrations  of 
which  the  individual  is  not  conscious.  If  I  raise 
my  finger,  the  world  is  different  from  what  it 
was  a  moment  before.  So  in  the  spiritual  region. 
If  I  think  a  good  thought,  or  if  I  think  an  evil 
thought,  the  benefit  and  the  mischief  are  not  con- 
fined to  myself,  but  the  thought  sends  a  ripple, 
however  inconspicuous,  through  the  spiritual 
horizon.  The  limitations  of  will,  of  impulse,  of 
thought,  of  prayer,  are  unknown  to  us.  But  how- 
ever fruitless  the  thought  or  the  prayer  may  seem, 
its  vibration  passes  on  its  viewless  flight  through 
the  spiritual  substance  of  eternity.  We  dare  not 
say  that  every  prayer  must  find  its  material  ful- 
filment ;  the  interplay  of  spirit  and  matter  is  too 
complex  for  that;  but  it  cannot  fail  of  its  spirit- 
ual effect,  whatever  that  effect  may  be.  And 
if  the  loneliest  soul  on  earth,  lying  in  darkness 


Brain  Waves  291 

of  spirit  and  pain  of  body,  breathes  one  voice- 
less prayer  upon  the  night,  the  world  can  never 
be  the  same  as  though  that  prayer  had  been 
unprayed. 


FORGIVENESS 

I  HEARD  a  sermon  preached  in  a  parish  church 
the  other  day  by  a  young  curate,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  sermons  in  feeling  and  in  form,  both 
for  its  fine  emotion  and  for  its  restraint  of  lan- 
guage, which  I  have  heard  for  a  long  time.  But 
the  preacher  took  up  a  position  which  I  will  not 
say  that  I  contest,  but  which  I  cannot  understand. 

It  was  a  sermon  on  forgiveness.  God,  said  the 
preacher,  freely  and  entirely  forgives  the  sinner, 
and  yet  He  exacts  the  full  penalty  for  sin. 

I  found  myself  wondering  whether  the  word 
forgiveness  could  apply  to  such  a  transaction. 
Forgiveness,  in  the  human  sense  of  the  word, 
means  precisely  the  opposite.  It  means  that  in 
spite  of  some  offence,  the  man  offended  against 
does  not  exact  his  due;  that  he  forgets  and  puts 
out  of  his  thoughts  the  offence,  and  reinstates  the 
offender,  just  as  though  the  offence  had  never 
been  committed.  To  forgive  a  man  a  debt  is  to 
release  him  from  the  necessity  of  payment;  and 
I  cannot  call  it  forgiveness  if  a  man  says  to  a 
debtor,  "  I  freely  and  frankly  forgive  you  the 
debt,  but  of  course  you  will  have  to  pay  every 
292 


Forgiveness  293 

penny  of  it."  That  does  not  seem  to  me  the  kind 
of  forgiveness  indicated  in  the  Oosi)el.  In  the 
I)arable  about  the  lord  and  the  debtor,  when  the 
man  says,  "  Have  patience  with  me,  and  I  will 
pay  thee  all,"  he  is  not  merely  given  extra  time 
in  which  to  pay  his  debt,  but  he  is  at  once  and 
entirely  forgiven  the  whole  debt  without  the  sug- 
gestion of  repayment.  But  when  the  man,  in- 
stead of  showing  mercy,  extorts  his  own  petty 
debt  from  his  own  humble  debtor,  then  he  is 
penalised  indeed!  The  words  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  closely  correspond  to  this :  "  Forgive  us 
our  trespasses,  for  we  also  forgive  them  that 
trespass  against  us."  It  cannot  surely  mean  that 
God  forgives  us  our  sins,  if  we  forgive  those  who 
sin  against  us,  but  that  He  exacts  the  whole 
penalty  for  sin,  while  the  essence  of  our  forgive- 
ness is  that  we  should  not  exact  it?  It  cannot 
be  that  our  human  forgiveness  is  meant  to  be 
absolute,  while  God  is  justified  in  conceding  only 
a  moral  forgiveness?  Should  we  hold  up  as  a 
type  of  Christian  forgiveness  the  case  of  a  man 
whose  son,  we  will  say,  had  stolen  some  of  his 
money,  if  the  father  were  to  say  to  the  son,  "  I 
forgive  you  the  theft,  but  I  shall  hand  you  over 
to  the  police,  and  the  law  must  take  its  course  " 
— should  we  call  that  forgiveness? 

And  then,  too,  as  far  as  the  world  goes,  no  one 
can  maintain  that  sin  is  evenly  and  justly  pun- 
ished. Carelessness  is  often  very  heavily  punished 
indeed,  while  deliberate  cruelty,  if  it  be  carefully 


294  Along  the  Road 

concealed,  may  escape  all  punishment.  The  cau- 
tious and  hardened  sinner  may  avoid  detection, 
and  even  the  consequences  of  sin  in  this  world, 
while  some  foolish  and  ignorant  boy  may  commit 
a  single  sin,  the  results  of  which  may  blacken 
all  his  life  and  blast  all  his  prospects.  I  have 
met  with  such  a  case  myself,  and  all  I  can  say  is 
that  if  that  sin  deserved  so  awful  a  punishment,  the 
punishment  in  store  for  cold-blooded,  deliberate, 
and  prudent  sinners  must  be  something  too  terrible 
to  contemplate.  Nature,  of  course,  does  not  always 
punish  sin;  what  she  does  punish  is  excess;  and 
she  punishes  the  ignorant  transgression  of  her 
laws  just  as  sternly  as  she  punishes  a  deliberate 
infringement  of  them;  and  yet  we  must  believe 
that  the  law  of  Nature  is  a  law  laid  down  by  God. 
Consider,  too,  the  case  I  have  just  cited;  the 
wayward  boy  drifts  into  sin,  and  finds  his 
life  is  to  be  maimed  and  overshadowed  by  the 
consequence  of  it.  He  begs  and  implores  God 
for  forgiveness.  What  is  the  comfort,  if  he  is  told 
that  God  says,  "  Yes,  I  forgive  you  if  you  repent, 
but  you  must  go  through  life  suffering  shame  and 
misery  for  your  offence"?  Perhaps  he  has  been 
led  into  sin  by  more  hardened  offenders,  whom  he 
sees  living  in  tranquillity  and  prosperity,  and  how 
can  he  believe  in  the  justice  of  that?  How,  in  fact, 
are  we  to  reconcile  the  truth  that  God,  in  Nature, 
punishes  some  careless  single  sins,  and  even  some 
trifling  neglects  so  terribly,  and  yet  seems  to  have 
no  wrath  for  a  sinner  who  is  wary  and  prudent? 


Forgiveness  295 

I  think  it  is  a  great  and  a  fatal  mistake  not 
to  face  a  problem  like  this.  It  is  not  the  least 
use  to  pass  it  over  in  the  mind,  and  to  lay  hold 
of  some  vaguely  comforting  assurance.  If  we  act 
thus  we  are  apt,  when  we  are  really  confronted 
with  the  problem  in  a  concrete  form,  to  find  the 
whole  of  our  faith  crumbling  down  about  us,  and 
leaving  us  helpless  and  not  certain  of  anything. 

I  think  that  the  only  way  to  meet  it  is,  in  the 
first  place,  not  to  compare  our  own  case  with 
the  case  of  others  at  all.  Our  own  case  is  the 
only  case  of  which  we  know  the  data  and  the 
circumstances;  and  it  is  rare,  I  think,  to  find 
people  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  feel  that  they 
have  been  unjustly  treated  by  God.  It  is  rather 
the  other  way;  and  I  have  often  been  surprised 
at  finding  people  whom  I  should  have  expected 
to  murmur  against  the  disi)ensation  of  God,  tran- 
quil, and  even  grateful  for  their  sufferings,  when 
they  have  seemed  to  myself  unduly  severe. 

And,  in  the  second  place,  we  must  try  with  all 
our  might  to  believe  that  the  chastening  of  God 
is  not  a  cruel  or  fortuitous  chastening,  and  that 
in  all  suffering  we  can  find  an  opportunity  of 
gaining  something  for  our  souls  which  we  can 
gain  in  no  other  way.  I  do  not  know  anything 
which  I  have  more  certainly  derived  from  observa- 
tion and  experience  than  the  amazing  benefits, 
not  only  in  character  but  also  in  actual  happiness, 
which  suffering  brings  to  people.  The  patience, 
the  courage,  the  sympathy  which  spring  from  it  I 


296  Along  the  Road 

And  then,  too,  the  soul  has  a  most  blessed  power 
of  obliterating  even  the  recollection  of  past  suf- 
fering, as  if  it  had  never  been.  One  looks  back 
to  a  time  which  was  full  of  anxiety  and  even 
pain,  and  can  remember  nothing  of  it  but  the 
joyful  and  beautiful  things. 

And  thus  we  must  hold  on  fast  to  the  fact  that 
God's  forgiveness  is  a  very  real  thing,  and  not  a 
mere  dramatic  thing;  and  that  if  we  have  to 
suffer  what  seems  a  disproportionate  penalty  for 
our  fault,  it  is  not  sent  us  because  God  is  merely 
an  inflexible  exactor  of  debts,  but  because  by  ex- 
acting them  He  gives  us  something  that  we  could 
in  no  other  way  attain  to. 

Where  we  go  wrong  is  in  comparing  God  to  a 
human  disciplinarian.  If  a  father  says  to  a  son, 
^^  I  forgive  you,  but  I  am  going  to  punish  you 
just  the  same,"  we  may  frankly  conclude  that  he 
does  not  know  what  forgiveness  means.  The  fact 
that  he  punishes  merely  means  that  he  does  not 
really  trust  the  son's  repentance,  but  is  going 
to  make  sure  that  the  son's  repentance  is  not 
merely  a  plea  for  remission.  We  have  to  act  so, 
or  we  believe  that  we  have  to  act  so,  on  occasions, 
to  other  human  beings;  but  it  is  only  because  we 
cannot  really  read  their  hearts.  If  we  knew  that 
a  repentance  was  complete  and  sincere,  we  should 
not  need  to  exact  any  punishment  at  all.  But 
with  God  there  can  be  no  such  concealments.  If 
a  man  repents  of  a  sin  and  puts  it  away  from 
him,  and  if  none  of  the  dreaded  consequences  do 


Forgiveness  297 

befall  him,  he  may  be  grateful  indeed  for  a  gra- 
\  cious  forgiveness.  But  if  the  consequences  do 
fall  on  him,  he  may  inquire  of  himself  whether 
his  repentance  had  indeed  been  sincere,  or  only 
a  mere  dread  of  contingencies;  while  if  he  is 
penalised,  however  hardly,  he  may  believe  that  his 
sufferings  will  bring  him  a  blessing,  and  that  by 
no  other  road  can  he  reach  peace. 

What  is  hardest  of  all  to  face  is  when  the  sin 
of  a  careless  father  or  mother  seems  visited  upon 
an  innocent  child.  That  does  indeed  seem  a  thing 
behind  and  beyond  all  human  conceptions  of  jus- 
tice. But  it  would  not  be  so  if  we  could  look 
upon  suffering  as  a  gift  of  God.  We  must  indeed 
use  all  human  skill  and  knowledge  to  abate  and 
remove  remediable  suffering,  or  else  we  can  be 
landed  in  sad  sophistries,  and  even  think  our- 
selves justified  in  inflicting  suffering  on  others 
because  of  its  beneficial  results. 

And  the  last  mistake  we  make  is  that  though 
we  most  of  us  profess  a  faith  in  immortality,  we 
do  not  really  believe  it.  We  confine  our  ideas  of 
the  justice  of  God  to  the  tiny  brief  span  of  human 
existence.  If  we  could  only  realise  that  it  is  all 
a  much  larger  and  wider  and  more  remote  matter, 
we  should  take  our  difficulties  and  troubles 
much  more  tranquilly  and  serenely,  and  learn  to 
wait. 

And  for  practical  action,  we  must,  if  we  would 
be  like  God,  forgive  frankly  and  completely.  If 
we  act  as  though  we  believed  in  the  entire  sin- 


298  Along  the  Road 

cerity  of  a  man's  repentance,  we  do  more  for  him 
and  for  ourselves,  even  if  we  are  disappointed  a 
dozen  times,  than  if  we  say  we  will  make  sure, 
and  exact  our  due.  That  is  not  the  forgiveness 
of  Christ  at  all.  We  must  not  say,  "  I  have  for- 
given you  a  dozen  times,  and  each  time  you  have 
offended  again;  this  time  I  can  trust  you  no 
more."  We  must  rather  bring  ourselves  to  say, 
^'  I  have  been  disappointed  a  dozen  times,  but  this 
time  I  trust  your  repentance."  It  may  be  said 
that  this  is  mere  weak  sentiment,  but  it  is  wholly 
false  and  base  to  describe  it  so.  It  may  be  foolish- 
ness to  the  world,  but  it  is  the  power  which  wins 
souls.  I  do  not  mean  that  it  must  be  done  with- 
out any  common  sense  and  wisdom ;  but  even  when 
it  is  so  done,  it  is  a  nobler  and  a  purer  thing 
than  a  suspicious  mistrust.  The  considerations 
that  we  ought  to  punish  for  the  sake  of  example 
and  deterrence,  that  the  offender  will  be  better 
for  punishment,  and  so  forth,  must  be  very  care- 
fully and  sincerely  scrutinised,  that  we  may  be 
quite  sure  that  our  own  personal  vindictiveness 
is  not  dressing  itself  up  in  specious  reasons.  I 
remember  well  at  school  being  punished  for  some 
infraction  of  discipline  by  a  master  who  dis- 
claimed all  sense  of  personal  offence,  but  who  was 
yet,  I  felt  sure,  glad  to  punish  because  he  was 
revenging  himself  on  me  for  his  own  sense  of 
injured  annoyance.  It  gave  me  a  feeling  of  real 
humbug  when  he  said  that  it  gave  him  pain  to 
inflict  punishment.     That  I  knew  was  not  true, 


Forgiveness  299 

j  and  T  ended  by  feeling  that  older  people  were  not 
trustworthy  in  such  matters. 

And  thus,  if  we  make  up  our  mind  to  punish 

;  and  to  exact  our  due,  where  we  can,  we  had 
better  not  talk  much  about  forgiveness.  The  two 
(an  hardly  be  brought  together.  The  best  way  of 
forgiving  is  often  enough  to  forget,  or  at  all  events 
to  behave  as  if  we  had  forgotten ;  and  perhaps  the 
largest  and  sweetest  solution  of  all  is  to  act  in 
the  spirit  of  the  old  French  proverb,  which  says, 
"  To  love  is  to  pardon  everything." 


SELF-PITY 

We  all  know  the  story  of  Narcissus  who  caught 
a  sight  of  his  own  face  in  a  woodside  well,  where 
he  had  stooped  to  drink,  and  who  was  so  much 
enchanted  by  his  own  beauty  that  he  spent  the 
rest  of  his  perhaps  fortunately  brief  life  in  ad- 
miring it.  A  parable  of  complacent  vanity !  But 
it  lias  been  left  to  our  self-conscious  age  to  invent 
a  still  more  ingenious  form  of  self-adoration.  It 
is  not  only  now  the  Pharisee  who  is  in  love  with 
his  own  nobleness ;  but  the  publican  is  intoxicated 
with  his  own  humility  and  abjectness.  This  is 
very  different  from  the  elaborate  sorrows  of  a 
mediaeval  penitent,  like  the  Abbot  Turgesius  of 
Kirkstall,  whose  grief  over  his  sense  of  sinfulness 
seems  to  us  exaggerated.  "  His  compunction," 
says  the  old  Chronicle,  "  knew  no  bounds.  In 
common  conversation  he  scarcely  refrained  from 
weeping.  At  the  altar  he  never  celebrated  with- 
out such  a  profusion  of  tears  that  his  eyes  might 
be  said  to  rain  rather  than  to  weep,  insomuch 
that  scarcely  any  other  person  could  use  the 
sacerdotal  vestments  after  him."  What  wonder 
if,  after  nine  years  of  this  lachrymose  rule,  the 
300 


Self-Pity  301 


poor  monks  of  Kirkstall  felt  that  they  wanted  a 
man  of  business  at  their  head ! 

But,  after  all,  the  tears  of  Turgesius  did  corre- 
spond, I  supi)ose,  to  a  sense  that  he  fell  far  short 
of  his  ideal.  There  is  a  much  more  subtle  kind 
of  lamentation  nowadays.  T  will  not  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  our  modern  development  of  the 
art  of  self-pity  is  a  common  thing  exactly,  but 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  it  about,  and  the  essence 
of  it  is  a  kind  of  comi)lacent  misery,  a  sense  of 
superiority  and  distinction  at  having  more  and 
graver  troubles  than  other  people,  and  a  greater 
sensitiveness  about  them.  I  remember  meeting 
with  it  once  in  the  case  of  an  old  lady,  who  died 
years  ago,  whom  I  used  to  know.  She  had  a 
good  many  troubles,  and  I  sui)pose  that  the 
method  she  chose  of  meeting  them  was  an  in- 
stinctive eflfort  of  the  mind  to  relieve  itself.  She 
could  not  forget  them  or  remove  them,  and  so  she 
took  the  line  of  being  intensely  proud  of  them. 
8he  could  not  hear  of  a  disaster  without  saying 
that  it  was  nothing  to  what  she  had  to  bear.  She 
did  not  seclude  herself  in  melancholy  reserve;  she 
was  rather  fond  indeed  of  society,  and  liked 
nothing  better,  when  she  saw  that  all  were  en- 
joying themselves,  than  to  burst  into  tears  and 
say  that  it  reminded  her  of  all  she  had  lost.  She 
was,  or  had  been,  a  tender-hearted  woman,  but 
T  do  not  think  she  ever  enjoyed  herself  more  than 
when  she  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  of  condolence 
to  some  bereaved  person.     This  parade  of  grief 


302  Along  the  Road 

used  then  to  afflict  me,  but  I  know  now — and  I 
say  this  not  at  all  cynically,  but  with  perfect 
candour — that  it  was  her  way  of  turning  the 
tables  on  her  sorrows,  and  that  she  got  as  much 
interest  out  of  the  little  drama  as  other  people 
get  out  of  other  poses.  She  thought  herself  a 
romantic  and  interesting  figure,  overshadowed  by 
a  mysterious  and  impressive  affliction.  What  she 
did  not  perceive  was  that  strangers  who  met  her 
thought  her  dismal,  and  that  her  own  immediate 
circle  found  her  partly  tiresome  and  partly 
grotesque. 

Of  course,  the  truth  is  that  the  condition  of 
self-pity  is  a  morbid  one,  and  that  a  person  suf- 
fering under  it  is  as  much  worthy  of  pity  as 
anyone  who  is  afflicted  with  any  other  disagree- 
able complaint.  It  is  like  shyness — it  is  not  the 
least  use  to  laugh  at  shy  people  and  tell  them 
that  it  all  comes  of  thinking  about  themselves; 
that  is  the  disease  itself.  Shyness  is  a  very  un- 
pleasant and  hampering  malady,  but  no  one  de- 
liberately makes  up  his  mind  to  be  shy.  The  only 
cure  for  shy  people  is  to  encourage  them  to  take 
an  interest  in  external  things,  to  use  other  parts 
of  their  brain,  because  when  we  know  more  of 
mental  and  moral  physiology  we  shall  find,  no 
doubt,  that  shyness  means  some  disarrangement 
of  brain  molecules,  some  unsheathed  nerve,  which 
prevents  a  man  or  woman  from  acting  simply 
and  confidently,  as  healthy  people  act. 

Self-pity  is  really  nothing  more  than  ordinary 


Self-Pity  303 

vanity  turned  inside  out.  The  vain  person,  what- 
ever he  hears  or  sees,  is  bent  on  favourable  com 
parison  of  himself  with  others.  A  man  who  is 
vain  of  his  api)earance  is  pleased  to  find  himself 
among  deplorable-looking  j^eojde;  and  if  he  has 
an  uneasy  suspicion  that  some  one  is  handsomer 
than  himself,  delights  to  say  that  beauty  does 
not  depend  upon  correctness  of  feature,  but  upon 
expression.  So,  too,  the  self-pitying  man  is  occu- 
pied in  always  measuring  other  troubles  against 
his  own,  and  if  the  trouble  of  another  is  obviously 
greater,  he  falls  back  upon  the  superiority  of  his 
own  sensibilities. 

T  think  that  the  complaint  is  more  common 
among  women  than  among  men,  though  when  a 
man  has  it  it  is  generally  very  bad  indeed,  be- 
cause men  are  generally  more  positive  than 
women.  I  remember  an  old  gentleman  who  was 
fond  of  api)earing  at  his  own  dinner-table  with 
an  air  of  mournful  resignation,  and  helping  the 
rest  of  the  party  to  soup,  but  waving  away  the 
proflfer  of  a  plate  for  himself.  Then  there  arose 
a  chorus  of  condolence  from  the  female  members 
of  his  party,  to  which  he  gravely  replied  that  he 
hoped  no  notice  would  be  taken  of  him,  that  he 
had  no  appetite  for  dinner,  but  that  he  pre- 
ferred to  keep  his  anxieties  to  himself.  Then 
he  was  coaxed  and  implored  to  make  an  effort 
for  their  sake;  until  with  an  air  of  infinite 
magnanimity  he  helped  himself  to  soup,  and 
generally  ended   by  making  a  remarkably  good 


304  Along  the  Road 

dinner,  due  tribute  having  been  paid  to  his 
sensibilities. 

But  the  reason  why,  as  a  rule,  men  are  less 
liable  to  the  disease  than  women  is  simply  because 
as  a  rule  they  have  more  to  do,  are  compelled  to 
go  out  to  business,  to  meet  other  people,  and  so 
are  insensibly  drawn  out  of  themselves.  But 
lonely  women  or  feminine  households,  with  few 
visitors  and  scanty  external  interests,  with  little 
to  do  except  to  pass  the  hours  between  meals,  and 
plenty  of  time  for  brooding,  are  apt  to  fall  a  prey 
to  these  fancies ;  and  especially  does  it  happen  in 
the  case  of  bereavements,  where  true  affection  dic- 
tates a  false  loyalty  to  the  dead,  and  where  pro- 
longed grief  seems  to  be  the  obvious  proof  of 
faithful  love.  But  as  Mrs.  Charles  Kingsley  once 
said  to  a  friend,  with  splendid  emphasis :  "  When- 
ever I  find  myself  thinking  too  much  of  Charles, 
I  read  the  most  sensational  story  I  can  find. 
Hearts  were  made  to  love  with,  not  to  break ! " 
That  is  a  true  and  a  gallant  saying! 

But  if  anyone  can  once  realise  that  this  kind 
of  morbid  sensibility  is  a  disease,  the  cure  is 
possible,  though  difficult.  It  is  of  little  use  to 
analyse  an  illness,  unless  one  is  prepared  with 
some  suggestion  as  to  its  remedy.  The  remedy 
in  this  case  is  at  all  costs  to  find  an  interest,  or 
at  worst,  a  duty.  If  a  person  in  this  condition 
takes  up  a  definite  piece  of  work,  and  if  possible 
a  piece  of  work  which  involves  relations  with 
other  people,  and  pledges  himself  or  herself  to  it 


Self-Pity  305 

in  a  way  that  makes  one  ashamed  of  neglecting 
it,  the  disease  may  be  fought  and  conquered.  It 
is  a  medicine,  and  often  a  very  disagreeable  medi- 
cine. Those  involved  in  the  luxury  of  grief  think 
that  allowances  should  be  made  for  them,  that 
they  are  not  equal  to  action,  that  they  can  be 
of  no  use.  Let  them  try!  Let  a  woman,  for  in- 
stance, take  up  a  perfectly  definite  piece  of  work, 
the  more  congenial,  of  course,  the  better,  if  it  be 
only  the  anxious  care  of  some  one  other  human 
])eing.  In  every  smallest  village  there  is  some 
one  who  can  be  watched  and  tended;  and  then 
human  relations  have  a  marvellous  way  of  broad- 
ening and  extending;  the  flame  leaps  from  one 
point  to  another;  and  thus  the  thing  becomes 
dear  and  desiiable;  or  even  if  it  does  not,  there 
is  always  a  pleasure  in  carrying  a  matter  through, 
in  following  out  a  programme. 

Of  course,  people  in  real  and  great  affliction 
cannot  always  be  hurried.  But  the  time  often 
comes,  as  every  doctor  knows,  when  a  strain  or 
a  lesion  is  healed,  but  tlie  habit  of  lameness  or 
incapacity  continues.  I  was  told  an  interesting 
story  the  other  day  of  an  old  Canon  of  a  cathedral 
who  sank  into  great  depression  and  could  per- 
form none  of  his  duties.  He  sat  day  by  day  try- 
ing to  read  or  write,  lost  in  melancholy.  The 
months  went  on,  and  his  doctor  became  aware, 
from  certain  unmistakable  signs,  that  the  attack 
was  over,  and  yet  it  seemed  impossible  to  rouse 
him.     One  morning  a  messenger  came  in  to  say 


3o6  Along  the  Road 

that  the  only  other  Canon  in  residence  had  been 
suddenly  taken  ill,  and  that  there  was  no  one 
to  preside  at  the  service.  The  old  man  got  up 
from  his  chair,  said,  "  I  think  I  can  manage  it," 
put  on  his  surplice  and  went  in,  and  to  his  amaze- 
ment found  that  he  could  take  his  part  in  the 
service  with  enjoyment ;  from  that  moment  he  was 
restored  to  health  and  activity. 

This  is  the  truth  which  underlies  Christian 
Science,  that  we  can  most  of  us  endure  and  do 
more  than  we  feel  we  can;  and  there  is  nothing 
so  potent  in  dispersing  nervous  terrors  as  to 
drag  oneself  to  the  scene  of  action,  expecting 
to  break  down,  the  result  being  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  that  what  breaks  down  is  the  nervous 
terror. 

It  is  not  wrong  to  be  attacked  by  self-pity  any 
more  than  it  is  wrong  to  have  a  cold  in  the  head 
— both  are  the  result  of  some  sort  of  disorganisa 
tion  of  the  frame.  What  is  wrong,  in  both  cases 
is  to  allow  oneself  to  be  incapacitated  by  it. 
What  would  help  many  people  out  of  the  self 
pitying  condition  would  be  to  realise  how  ugly 
and  ill-mannered  and  boring  a  thing  it  may  be 
come.  A  display  of  tragic  grief  at  a  moment  of 
mental  agony  is  a  very  impressive  thing;  but  one 
cannot  be  harassed  beyond  a  certain  point;  and 
the  complacent  display  of  artificial  misery  is  as 
objectionable  a  thing  in  the  moral  world  as  is 
the  habit  of  incessant  sniffing  is  in  the  physical 
region.    It  may  be  very  comfortable  to  sniff  if 


Self-Pity  307 

oue  feels  inclinod ;  but  what  siiiflfers  do  not  realise 
is  that,  instead  of  evoking  sympathy,  they  evoke 
nothing  bnt  a  sort  of  contemptuous  irritation  in 
others.  Christ  advised  people  who  were  tempted 
to  parade  their  prayerful ness  in  public,  to  go 
home  and  shut  the  door;  the  same  applies  to 
genuine  grief,  and  far  more  to  indulged  grief. 
Of  course  no  one  who  has  had  much  experience 
til  inks  that  the  world  is  a  wholly  easy  or  com- 
fortable i)lace;  but  by  indulging  self-pity,  one 
lessens  rather  than  increases  one's  capacity  for 
endurance.  A  century  ago  it  was  the  fasliion  for 
a  certain  tyj>e  of  woman  to  faint  as  much  as 
jMjssible  in  public,  and  a  power  of  unlimited 
swooning  was  a  matter  of  i)ardonable  pride.  But 
when  it  became  clear  that  other  people  were 
frankly  bored  by  having  to  attend  to  rigid  females, 
the  tendency  died  out,  to  reappear  in  subtler 
forms.  To  indulge  self-pity  is  not  only  an  ab- 
negation of  courage;  it  is  an  insult  to  the  great, 
interesting,  exciting  world.  If  life  means  any- 
thing, it  means  that  we  have  the  chance  of  a 
certain  amount  of  exi>erience,  and  a  certain 
length  of  road  to  cover  if  we  will.  But  if  we 
take  our  seat  by  the  roadside,  our  face  covered 
by  our  hands,  shaking  with  sobs,  to  excite  the 
interest  and  sympathy  of  other  pilgrims,  we  run 
the  risk  of  delaying  too  long,  and  at  last,  when 
we  uncover  our  besmeared  countenance,  we  shall 
find  that  the*  pilgrims  are  out  of  sight,  and  shall 
have  to  trot  after  them  in  the  twilight  in  a  very 


3o8  Along  the  Road 

helpless  and  humiliating  fashion,  when  we  might 
have  walked  in  true  company,  and  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  honest  talk  and  pretty  prospects  by  the 
tv^ay. 


BELLS 

When  we  were  living  at  Lincoln,  now  nearly 
forty  years  ago,  where  my  father  was  a  Canon, 
we  children  had  a  pleasant  custom  that  when  we 
were  all  at  home  together,  the  first  day  of  the 
iiolidays,  we  should  borrow  my  father's  pass-key 
to  the  cathedral,  and  go  to  the  great  bell-chamber 
of  the  central  tower,  just  before  noon,  to  see  and 
liear  Great  Tom  strike  the  hour. 

We  used  to  convoy  the  party  to  the  little  door 
in  the  south  transept  that  admitted  one  to  the 
winding  stair.  How  cool  it  was  in  there,  with 
a  pleasant  smell  of  stone,  and  into  what  silence 
and  darkness  it  conducted  us!  Up  and  up  we 
went.  Now  there  was  a  sudden  peep  out  of  a 
loophole  on  to  house-roofs  and  gardens  and  sailing 
birds;  then  there  was  a  long  gallery  to  be 
threaded,  in  the  triforium,  with  pits  of  darkness, 
in  the  upper  surface  of  the  aisle  vaulting,  on 
either  hand ;  then  another  stair — we  were  in  the 
great  tower  now.  Then  a  dizzy  balustraded  gal- 
lery, in  the  lantern  itself,  from  which  we  could 
look  down  into  the  stacked  organ-pipes  below  and 
see  the  choir  laid  out  like  a  map.  Then  further 
309 


310  Along  the  Road 

stairs,  and  at  last  a  key  was  turned  and  we  were 
in  the  high,  dusty  chamber  itself,  with  its  great 
tie-beams  and  cross-rods,  its  litter  of  jackdaw 
nests,  and  the  golden  light  filtering  in  through 
the  slanting  louvres  of  the  windows. 

The  bells  themselves  lived  in  a  great  railed 
cage,  into  which  we  could  also  penetrate;  but  we 
were  getting  anxious  now,  as  the  hour  drew  near, 
and  the  great  clock  ticked  the  minutes  away. 
Someone  would  tell  the  legend  of  the  unhappy 
man  who  determined  to  stand  inside  the  bell 
when  the  hour  struck,  and  fell  to  the  ground 
after  the  first  stroke,  with  the  blood  gushing  from 
nose  and  ears — an  entire  fiction,  no  doubt !  And 
now  there  was  silence. 

There  was  Great  Tom  himself,  swung  on  his 
monstrous  wheel,  on  the  one  side  of  him  a  huge 
black  hammer  for  the  hour,  on  the  other  side 
another  hammer,  with  a  leathern  strap  round  it, 
for  ringing  a  mufiied  peal  if  any  dignitary  of  the 
church  died.  A  little  beyond  were  the  two  bells 
for  the  quarter  chimes,  big  enough,  but  as  nothing 
beside  the  bulk  of  Tom.  Then  perhaps  a  nervous 
sister's  heart  would  fail  her,  and  she  would  seek 
the  shelter  of  the  staircase.  At  last  the  watches 
pointed  to  noon ;  suddenly  came  a  click.  Pulled 
by  some  mysterious  agency,  one  of  the  hammers 
of  the  small  bells  was  jerked  backwards,  poised, 
and  fell  with  a  crash,  the  others  following  suit. 
That  was  deafening  enough,  and  it  was  four  times 
repeated.     Then  came  an  awful  pause,  while  the 


Bells  311 

echoes  died  away.  Great  Tom  was  very  deliberate 
and  took  his  time  about  striking.  It  was  almost 
more  than  mortal  nature  could  bear  to  await  the 
moment;  but  at  last  the  great  hammer  quivered, 
was  agitated,  drew  itself  back,  and  then  fell  with 
a  tremendous  shock  and  an  outrushing  wave  of 
sweet  sound.  Sometimes  one  fled  before  it;  but 
it  was  worse  in  the  staircase,  where  the  echoes 
came  and  went  like  resounding  waves;  and  I 
irrew  to  think  that  the  clash  of  the  small  bells 
was  more  terrifying  than  the  solemn  thunder  of 
Tom  himself. 

How  often,  too,  in  the  little  mullioned  bedroom 
of  the  Chancery,  which  I  occupied  with  my 
brother,  looking  out  on  Minster  Green,  at  some 
dead  hour  of  a  gusty  night,  used  we  to  hear  the 
solemn  shout  of  the  great  bell  come  swinging  over 
the  house-roofs! 

I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  which  so  iden- 
tifies itself  with  the  spirit  and  memory  of  a  place 
as  the  sound  of  some  customary  bell !  At  Eton, 
the  great,  school  clock  has  a  strange  cracked 
quality,  I  know  not  how  produced,  which  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  identify  on  a  piano.  How 
well  I  remember  the  first  bewildered  night  I  spent 
there  as  a  small  boy,  with  all  the  vague  terrors 
of  the  unfamiliar  place  upon  me,  and  how  the 
great  bell,  not  so  far  away,  clashed  out  the  hour 
of  dawn,  when  one  had  to  bestir  oneself  and 
plunge  into  the  whirling  tide  of  new  faces  and 
mystifying  duties  I     I  little  thought,  when  I  heard 


312  Along  the  Road 

it  then,  for  how  many  years  of  my  life  there,  as 
boy  and  master,  it  would  tell  the  happy  and  the 
busy  hours,  or  with  what  inexpressible  emotion 
I  should  hear  it  beat  out  the  last  hour  of  my 
life  of  service  there! 

What  poignant  feelings,  too,  are  aroused  by  a 
cheerful  peal  of  distant  church  bells  floating  melo- 
diously on  a  spring  morning  over  green  woods 
and  blossoming  valleys!  It  is  very  hard  to  ana- 
lyse such  vague  reveries  as  they  arouse — a  half- 
recovered  freshness,  a  surprising  joy;  like  the 
notes  of  the  cuckoo,  they  transport  one  back  as 
by  a  charm  into  the  old  unreflecting  childish 
mood,  when  life  was  all  full  of  new  experience 
and  joyful  energy;  or  the  sound  of  bells  clashing 
out  above,  as  the  wedding  procession  comes  out 
to  the  porch,  with  the  organ  humming  within ; 
or  when  the  solemn  tower  takes  voice,  in  some 
moment  of  lonely  waning  light,  and  beats  out  the 
news  of  the  departure  of  a  spirit  voyaging  to 
the  unknown;  or  when  it  beats,  at  slow  and  re- 
luctant intervals,  as  the  funeral  pomp  draws 
deliberately  nigh. 

One  of  the  many  charms  of  Cambridge  is  that 
it  is  a  city  of  many  bells;  there  is  the  beautiful 
familiar  chime  of  St.  Mary's,  and  at  night  the 
curfew  is  still  rung  there,  by  kindly  custom,  to 
guide  belated  travellers  home  across  the  fen.  The 
bells  of  King's  College  are  not  solemn  enough, 
though  endeared  to  me  by  use;  the  chapel  bell 
is  not  serious  enough  for  the  occasion,  and  the 


Bells  3^3 

dock  there  utters  a  trivial  and  even  waspish 
note.  Trinity  has  a  new  and  very  stately  chime; 
and  then  there  are  innumerable  other  voices  of 
stricken  metal,  in  towers  and  belfries,  down  to 
the  great  chime  of  the  new  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  which  plays  a  strict  old  ecclesiastical 
melody,  hard  to  recai)ture,  at  every  quarter.  Yet 
how  often  the  day  passes,  and  one  is  not  even 
conscious  of  having  heard  a  bell,  much  less  of 
having  been  disturbed  by  one;  for  the  brain  has 
a  singular  power  of  taking  no  notice  whatever 
of  a  familiar  sound  and  a  recurring  note,  so  long 
as  it  has  nothing  of  human  unaccountableness,  of 
irregular  volition,  behind  it. 

The  voices  of  bells  certainly  belong  to  the  peace- 
ful sounds  of  life,  and  mingle  themselves  with  the 
characteristic  atmosphere  and  quality  of  a  place 
and  a  life.  And  then,  as  I  say,  they  have  the 
magical  power,  when  heard  after  a  long  interval, 
of  suddenly  touching  with  vividness  and  recon- 
structing the  old  sense  of  a  forgotten  hour: 

"  The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame." 

One  of  my  great  pleasures  at  my  little  college 
here  is  that  T  have  lately  been  permitted  to  hang 
in  The  quaint  hall  belfry  a  bell,  of  a  soft  and 
silvery  note,  on  which  the  clock  now  strikes  the 
hour;  and  two  lesser  bolls  for  the  quarters, 
tlie  three  to  sound  the  subject  of  that  wonderful 


•/ 


314  Along  the  Road 

Prelude  of  Rachmaninoff's,  which  will  be  familiar 
to  all  who  go  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  where  it 
is  sometimes  played. 

What  I  like  about  it  is  the  thought  that  the 
three  bells  will,  it  may  be  hoped,  become  a  part 
of  the  memory  of  the  place.  Up  till  now  there  has 
been  a  shrill,  light-minded  bell,  which  has  had 
neither  dignity  nor  resonance,  a  mere  time-teller. 
But  it  is  a  pleasure  to  think  that  the  new  bells 
may  weave  themselves  into  the  delights  and  ac- 
tivities and  dreams  of  the  generations  who  will 
hereafter  go  in  and  out;  and  that  coming  back 
a  score  of  years  after,  the  sound  of  the  familiar 
chime  may  bring  back  sudden  retrospects  of  the 
little  vivid  court  full  of  sunlight,  the  voices  of 
forgotten  friends,  the  old  plans  and  designs,  the 
old  energies  and  brightnesses  of  the  unshadowed 
life.  One  cannot  live  in  retrospect;  but  however 
strongly  the  new  tide  of  activities  may  run — and 
as  life  goes  on,  the  tide  does  run  more  swift  and 
more  absorbing — it  is  good  to  be  recalled  in  spirit 
to  the  earlier  days,  that  we  may  see  how  far  our 
hopes  have  fulfilled  themselves,  and  whether  or 
no  we  have  been  true  to  our  purposes.  This  is 
not  a  mere  sentiment:  it  is  facing  life  largely 
and  fully,  and  let  us  hope  gratefully;  and  only 
thus  does  one  draw  near  to  the  secret  and  the 
mystery  of  it  all,  realise  its  significance,  and  even 
discern  that  it  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  greatness 
as  vet  unrevealed. 


STARLINGS 

I  SPENT  some  time  to-day  watching  an  innumer- 
able colony  of  starlings,  who  were  picking  over 
a  field  where  some  sheep  were  penned.  The  star- 
ling as  a  bird  is  an  interesting  study;  he  has  a 
very  prettily  marked  coat,  with  all  sorts  of  un- 
expected gleams  and  glooms  and  iridescences  in 
it.  He  suits  his  colours  to  the  day.  On  a  grey, 
dull  morning,  the  starling  is  habited  in  decent 
pepper  and  salt,  like  a  respectable  farmer;  on  a 
day  of  sunlight,  he  has  the  changeful  sheen  of 
the  dove,  the  radiance  of  the  rainbow,  the  broken 
lights  of  spilt  petrol!  Then  his  bill  is  so  sharp 
and  long,  and  used  so  vigorously,  that  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  him  at  work.  He  never  takes  any- 
thing quietly  or  tranquilly.  He  is  always  in 
superlatives.  He  is  for  ever  in  a  tremendous 
hurry  and  fuss,  frightfully  hungry,  desperately 
busy.  He  goes  about  as  if  he  were  catching  a 
tiain.  He  eats  as  if  it  were  his  first  meal  for 
weeks,  and  his  last  chance  of  food  for  a  month. 
And  then  he  is  a  most  dramatic  bird.  If  you 
throw  crumbs  out  on  a  lawn,  the  robin  arrives 
first  in  a  disengaged  fashion,  hops  about  admiring 
315 


3i6  Along  the  Road 

the  view,  and  finally  decides  he  may  as  well  have 
a  mouthful.  Then  the  sparrows  bustle  down,  and 
gobble  away  in  a  jolly,  vulgar  fashion.  Then  the 
finches  alight  in  a  gentlemanly  way,  and  pick  up 
their  food  courteously  and  daintily.  Suddenly 
there  is  a  flutter  of  wings,  and  a  starling  or  two 
descend  out  of  breath,  in  wild  terror. and  excite- 
ment, as  if  they  had  to  choose  between  a  violent 
death  and  death  by  starvation,  and  they  had  de- 
cided to  risk  the  former.  They  snatch  up  all 
they  can,  and  fly  in  furious  haste. 

When  they  roost,  they  are  apparently  only 
afraid  of  being  bored.  They  chirp  all  together 
like  Italian  canons  saying  vespers  against  time; 
and  the  moment  they  awake  they  begin  to  practise 
all  kinds  of  quaint  imitation  of  sounds  they  have 
heard.  Life  is  a  very  strenuous  business  with 
them. 

Some  years  ago  I  spent  a  winter  in  Scotland 
at  a  shooting  lodge.  The  starlings  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  roost  in  a  little  island  on  a  lake,  which 
was  overgrown  with  thickets  of  rhododendrons. 
They  used  to  begin  to  assemble  about  four  o'clock 
as  the  day  began  to  fade.  Those  that  arrived 
first  used  to  fly  round  and  round  in  a  circle  over 
their  roosting-place,  and  all  the  newcomers  joined 
them  in  their  airy  dance.  As  the  sun  set,  one 
used  to  see  troops  arriving  from  every  direction, 
until  at  last  there  was  a  dense  mass  of  birds  all 
on  the  wing,  fljang  round  and  round  over  the 
island.    From  a  mile  away  one  could  see  the  mass 


Starlings  317 

like  a  great  shifting,  shadowy  balloon,  now  densely 
packed,  now  bursting  out  at  the  top  or  the  side 
like  a  waving  flag.  At  last,  when  the  muster  was 
complete,  at  some  given  signal,  they  sank  silently 
on  to  the  island.  A  minute  or  two  were  spent 
in  finding  their  perches,  and  then  arose  a  wild 
din,  a  sort  of  evening  hymn,  every  starling  shriek- 
ing its  loudest.  After  a  few  minutes  again,  as 
though  by  a  signal,  the  noise  suddenly  stopped, 
not  gradually,  but  like  steam  shut  sharply  off. 
Then,  if  one  came  close  up  and  clapped  one's 
hands,  the  whole  company  opened  cry,  and  the 
great  mass  shot  up  into  the  air  with  a  roar,  to 
resume  their  evolutions,  sinking  down  to  roost  as 
soon  as  the  coast  was  clear. 

To-day,  as  I  watched  them,  I  saw  that  while 
there  were  hundreds  on  the  ground  making  a 
thorough  investigation  of  the  field,  several  trees 
close  by  were  crammed  with  birds,  and  humming 
like  gigantic  tea-kettles.  I  crept  up  to  the  hedge 
to  watch  them,  and  they  continued  to  feed  for 
some  time,  but  suddenly  one  of  them  scented 
danger.  As  if  at  a  word  of  command,  the  whole 
company,  several  hundred  in  number,  rose  into 
the  air;  all  those  in  the  trees  swooped  out  to 
join  them;  and  the  whole  mass  flew  over  the 
adjoining  hedge  to  continue  foraging  on  a  safer 
fallow. 

Now  this  signal  that  is  given  is  probably  clear 
enough  to  the  birds.  But  what  entirely  beats  me 
is  how  they  manage  their  evolutions.    They  fly  at 


31 8  Along  the  Road 

a  prodigious  pace  in  open  order,  they  all  keep 
their  distances,  there  is  never  the  least  sign  of 
any  collision.  The  method  is  perfectly  incompre- 
hensible. It  is  impossible  to  divine  who  settles 
the  pace  or  the  direction.  Yet  the  whole  rout 
will  execute  a  simultaneous  wheel  when  on  the 
wing  without  the  smallest  sign  of  confusion  or 
of  dislocation.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  it  is 
instinctive,  though  I  suppose  that  a  young  star- 
ling when  he  joins  the  territorial  force  finds 
these  evolutions  perfectly  easy.  But  the  whole 
thing  implies  an  extraordinary  number  of  mental 
processes,  quick  observation,  rapid  inference,  in- 
stantaneous calculation,  and  the  most  complete 
subordination  to  some  sort  of  guidance.  It  is 
impossible  to  see  whether  any  particular  birds 
take  the  lead;  it  does  not  seem  so,  because,  as 
the  great  company  settles  in  a  field,  the  birds  in 
the  rear,  when  the  leaders  begin  to  pitch,  fly  over 
their  heads  and  settle  too  in  what  must  be  a 
perfectly  definite  and  preconcerted  order.  And 
if  one  puts  up  the  birds  again,  those  in  front, 
which  have  a  minute  or  two  before  been  in  the 
rear,  rise  up  and  seem  to  take  the  lead.  The 
whole  thing  is,  in  fact,  a  most  complete  and 
organised  system  of  drill  of  a  very  delicate  kind. 
I  once  saw  a  mass  of  starlings  in  full  flight  sud- 
denly confronted,  as  they  came  over  a  hedge,  by 
a  boy  who  emerged  from  behind  a  haystack. 
They  were  close  upon  him  when  they  perceived 
him.     One  would  have  imagined  that  there  would 


Starlings  319 

lave  been  some  confusion  owing  to  the  sudden 
eck;  but  instead  of  this,  the  whole  flight  went 
up   straight   into   the   air,   keeping   their   places 
exactly. 

I  remember  once,  when  I  was  a  schoolmaster, 
having  to  preside  over  the  evolutions  of  a  big 
company  of  small  boys,  and  the  desperate  diffi- 
culty that  there  was,  in  spite  of  their  extreme 
willingness  to  manoeuvre,  and  their  anxiety  to 
perform  the  process  right,  to  get  them  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  sort  with  any  precision.  They  simply 
could  not  keep  their  distances.  If  the  front  line 
was  suddenly  checked,  the  back  line  rushed  into 
it,  while  if  anything  in  the  least  complicated  was 
attempted,  the  whole  body  were  in  confusion  at 
once.  Yet  the  boys  understood  perfectly  well 
what  was  wanted  of  them,  and  presumably  had 
as  much  intelligence  as  the  starlings. 

That  is  the  extraordinary  thing  about  animals, 
that  their  reasoning  processes  seem  so  extraor- 
dinarily perfect  within  certain  limits,  and  so  very 
helpless  in  other  directions.  They  take  an  im- 
mense time  to  acquire  new  instincts,  and  yet,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  seem  very  quick  at  picking 
up  new  ideas.  Partridges,  for  instance,  have 
learned  not  to  fear  a  railway  train  passing.  You 
will  see  them  in  fields  beside  a  line,  sitting  per- 
fectly still  close  to  the  roaring  train.  They  seem 
to  have  learned  that  no  danger  threatens  them, 
and  the  result  is  that  they  are  absolutely  uncon- 
cerned.    Yet  the  same  birds  will  fly  backwards 


320  Along  the  Road 

and  forwards  over  shooting-butts,  season  after 
season,  and  never  learn  that  there  is  anything 
dangerous  to  be  avoided.  Even  a  bird  which  has 
been  wounded  at  a  butt  will  fly  with  the  covey 
a  week  or  two  afterwards  over  the  same  butt.  I 
suppose  that  in  the  course  of  time  they  will  learn 
to  differentiate  between  the  beaters  and  the  guns. 
But  it  is  very  strange  that  their  reasoning  pro- 
cesses are  so  incomplete,  while  their  instincts  are 
so  remarkably  delicate  and  skilful. 

I  remember  once  watching  a  hen  to  whom  had 
been  confided  a  big  brood  of  partridge-chicks.  She 
was  intensely  solicitous  about  them,  and  furious 
if  one  came  too  near  the  coop.  The  little  crea- 
tures themselves  recognised  her  as  their  mother, 
and  fled  to  her  for  safety.  Yet  in  a  week  she 
had  killed  them  all  by  treading  upon  them; 
and,  indeed,  I  saw  her  crush  one  to  death  in 
the  endeavour  to  protect  it  from  my  dangerous 
proximity  I 

But  the  commonwealth  of  starlings  is  produc- 
tive of  still  more  interesting  reflections.  They 
are  extremely  quarrelsome  and  selfish  birds.  Tf 
one  of  them  finds  food,  a  dozen  will  rush  in  and 
tear  it  away.  They  have  not  the  slightest  respect 
for  each  other^s  rights;  and  yet  with  all  their 
individualism  they  are  the  most  entirely  gre- 
garious of  birds.  Their  sense  of  the  community 
and  their  desire  for  each  other's  company  is  quite 
irrepressible.  They  have  a  strong  idea  of  im- 
perial federation,  and  their  subordination  to  some 


Starlings  321 

kind  of  leadership  must  be  complete.  Yet  they 
seem  to  be  entirely  lawless  among  themselves,  to 
be  at  perpetual  enmity  with  each  other. 

I  suppose  that  this  is  the  sort  of  community* 
which  may  be  the  outcome  of  Socialistic  prin- 
ciples, if  the  wrong  type  of  person  gets  the  direc- 
tion of  the  movenipnt.  The  starlings  in  their  way 
are  a  very  satisfactory  kind  of  community.  They 
are  healthy,  sensible,  greedy,  and  strong.  None 
of  them  ever  seem  out  of  sorts  or  out  of  spirits. 
If  a  weak  starling  has  a  tit-bit  taken  away  from 
him  by  a  strong  one,  he  does  not  waste  time  in 
brooding,  or  impugning  the  justice  of  existence. 
He  hurries  away  to  find  another  morsel.  Then, 
too,  their  intuitive  subordination  is  complete. 
They  do  not  seem  to  be  conscious  of  the  pressure 
of  social  problems.  They  are  on  a  splendid  level 
of  common  sense  and  activity.  It  is  true  that 
they  are  a  thoroughly  hourgeois  type.  One  can- 
not imagine  a  starling  singing  under  the  moon, 
in  a  fine  rapture,  like  the  nightingale.  They  work 
hard  for  their  living,  and  when  they  are  at  leisure, 
as  in  the  early  morning,  they  amuse  themselves 
by  impudent  imitations  of  things  in  general,  like 
healthy  people  who  work  all  day  and  find  amuse- 
ment in  the  evening  in  the  club  and  the  music- 
hall.  They  are  eminently  courageous  and  humor- 
ous; but  the  lark  and  the  nightingale,  solitary 
souls,  have  a  certain  secret  joy  in  the  beauty  of 
life,  which  one  cannot  imagine  the  starling  shar- 
ing.   They  no  doubt  consider  the  lark  a  fool  for 


2i22     '  Along  the  Road 

spending  his  time  and  strength  in  singing  and 
soaring,  and  as  for  the  nightingale,  they  would 
no  doubt  despise  a  bird  which  wasted  time  that 
might  be  devoted  to  refreshing  sleep  in  ecstasies 
about  the  moon  and  the  garden-scents. 

I  am  not  wholly  on  the  side  of  the  starling. 
Their  life  is  very  well  organised,  very  busy,  very 
sensible.  They  combine  in  a  remarkable  way  a 
devotion  to  their  own  interests  with  a  sense  of 
civic  duty.  I  admire  their  admirable  evolutions, 
and  envy  their  entire  disregard  of  any  kind  of 
privacy.  But  the  starling  is  only  a  jolly  school- 
boy when  all  is  said  and  done.  He  obeys  orders, 
he  enjoys  his  food.  He  is  not  so  dreadfully  busi- 
ness-like as  the  bee,  nor  so  helplessly  gregarious 
as  the  barnacle;  but  he  is  a  conventional  wretch 
for  all  that,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  humanity 
developed  on  his  good-humoured  lines. 


MOTTOES 

I  MAD  occasion  the  other  day  to  attempt  to  iden- 
tify an  unnamed  portrait.  There  was  nothing  to 
lielp  me  but  the  motto,  ^^  Patio?'  ut  potiar'';  "I 
suffer  that  I  may  obtain."  I  turned  over  an  im- 
mense number  of  heraldic  mottoes  in  search  of 
it.  The  Peyton  family  bears  the  motto,  ^'  Patior, 
potior":  "I  suffer,  I  obtain."  It  ultimately 
turned  out  to  be  the  motto  of  the  Spottiswoodes. 
I  was  struck,  I  confess,  on  passing  in  review 
several  hundred  mottoes,  to  find  how  flat  they 
generally  are.  The}^  are  very  often  platitudes  of 
the  deepest  dye,  and  have  nothing  salient  or  dis- 
tinctive about  them.  But  they  cast  a  curious 
light  on  the  English  character.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  before  what  a  very  real  and  vital  test  of 
(»iir  national  motives  and  temperament  such  a 
collection  of  maxims  supplies,  but,  if  one  thinks 
of  it,  a  man  who  is  going  to  take  a  motto  pro- 
bably makes  some  attempt  to  sum  up  in  it  his 
experience  of  life,  or  at  all  events,  if  mottoes  are 
suggested  to  him,  he  is  not  likely  to  adopt  one 
which  does  not  seem  to  him  to  represent  his  own 
philosophy.  Now  in  studying  these  mottoes  of 
323 


324  Along  the  Road 

great  English  families,  I  was  struck  with  several 
things.  They  dwell  very  much  upon  virtue  as 
the  basis  of  success,  a  good  deal  upon  honour, 
and  upon  being  true  to  one's  word.  Many  of 
them  are  distinctly  religious  and.  Christian;  the 
cross  of  Christ  is  not  infrequently  named  in 
them,  generally  in  cases  where  the  chief  of  the 
bearings  is  a  cross.  But  they  are  not,  as  a  rule, 
idealistic  or  imaginative  or  poetical  or  suggestive; 
they  are  sensible  and  straightforward  and  rather 
materialistic.  They  take  many  of  them  very  de- 
cided views  of  the  sanctity  of  property.  Thus 
Lord  Zouche's  motto  is,  "  Let  Curzon  hold  what 
Curzon  held."  The  motto  of  the  Kiddell  family 
is,  "  I  hope  to  share."  The  De  Tabley  motto  is 
^^  Tenel)o"  "  I  will  retain."  The  Denny  family 
bears  ^'Et  mea  messis  erit"  "And  the  harvest  shall 
be  mine  " ;  while  the  Ecklin  motto  is  still  more 
outspoken — ^^  Non  sine  pr^ceda"  "  Not  without  the 
spoils."  Again,  the  De  Traffords  have  a  fine  old 
predatory  motto,  "  Gripe,  Griffin,  hold  fast !  "  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Grevilles  bear  the  motto,  '^  Yix 
ea  nostra  voco/'  "I  scarce  can  call  it  mine"; 
and  the  Cowpers  have  the  beautiful  and  solemn 
motto,  addressed,  I  suppose,  to  God — ^^  Tuum  est'^ 
"  It  is  Thine." 

Some  of  the  most  impressive  mottoes  are  those 
which  consist  of  single  words.  The  Duke  of 
Hamilton  has  the  motto  "  Through  " ;  Lord  Hawke 
has  "  Strike," — a  very  appropriate  motto  for  a 
famous  batsman !     Lord  St.  Vincent  has  the  word 


Mottoes  325 

"  Thus,"  which  has  a  very  stately  air  of  high- 
bred satisfaction.  The  Aylmer  family  bears  the 
motto  "^  Hallelujah,"  and  the  Marquis  of  Ayles- 
bury has  the  pathetic  word  ''  Fuhnus/'  "  We  have 
been."  The  last  motto  is  an  ill-omened  one.  I 
suppose  the  idea  was  that  the  annals  of  the  house 
were  a  part  of  history;  but  the  Latin  word  has 
always  the  signification  that  a  thing  is  over  and 
done  with. 

There  are  many  very  interesting  punning 
mottoes,  with  a  play  upon  the  family  name. 
Thus  the  Wolseleys  (Wolves-ley)  bear  '^  Homo 
homini  lupus/'  "  Man  is  as  a  wolf  to  man  " — a 
grim  maxim.  Lord  Fairfax  bears  ''Fare  fac/' 
"  Speak  and  act " ;  the  Monsell  family  has  ''  Mone 
mJc,"  which  means  "  If  you  give  advice,  do  so 
humorously,"  or  "  Warn  with  wit."  The  Vernons 
liave  the  motto,  '' Yer  non  semper  viret,"  which 
limy  mean  "  Spring  is  not  always  green,"  or 
"  Vernon  always  flourishes."  The  Beauchamps 
bear  ''  Fortuna  mea  in  hello  campo/'  "  The  lot 
is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground  " — the  heau 
champ  of  the  name.  The  Fortescues  have  ''  Forte 
xciitum  sahis  ducum/'  "The  strong  shield  is  the 
captains'  safety."  The  Doyles  have  a  very  curi- 
ous motto,  "Doe  noe  yle  (ill)  quoth  Doyle"; 
but  the  most  ingenious  of  all  is  the  Onslow  motto, 
"  Fesfina  lenie"  which  means  "  Make  haste 
slowly,"  or  "  On  slow."  The  Cavendish  family 
has  the  solid  maxim, ''  Cavendo  Tutus/'  "  Safe  by 
being  cautious." 


326  Along  the  Road 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  curious  of  all  mottoes 
is  that  borne  by  Lord  Erskine,  no  doubt  invented 
by  the  first  peer,  the  witty  and  fanciful  Lord 
Chancellor,  "  Trial  by  Jury."  The  Dashwoods 
have  the  constitutional  motto,  ^^  Pro  Magna 
Charta/^  "  For  Magna  Charta." 

Then  there  are  a  number  of  fanciful  and  often 
very  beautiful  mottoes.  The  Egertons  have  ^^  Sic 
Donee  " — "  Even  thus,  until  " — which  is  a  fine 
aposiopesis.  Lord  Gough  bears  the  splendid 
motto,  referring  to  his  great  victory,  "  Goojerat, 
clear  the  way."  I  suppose  that  this  refers  to 
some  celebrated  order  given  by  him  on  the  occa- 
sion. Then  there  is  "  Comme  je  trouve,"  which 
is  parallel  to  ^'  Si  je  puis/'  which  last  was 
adopted  by  William  Morris.  The  .Anstruthers 
have  "  Perils sem  nisi  periissem,"  which,  I  sup- 
pose, means,  ^^  I  should  have  perished  if  I  had 
not  persevered,"  or  it  may  be  that  it  signifies, 
"  T  should  have  lost  my  life  if  I  had  not  lost  it." 
Lord  Halifax  bears  the  contented  motto,  "  I 
like  my  choice."  The  Maxwells  have  the  pretty 
maxim,  "  Think  on " ;  and  the  Montefiores  the 
still  more  beautiful  one,  "  Think  and  Thank." 
The  Byrons  have  the  grand  war-cry,  ^^  Crede 
Byron/'  "  Trust  Byron."  The  Yarde-Bullers  have 
the  curious  phrase,  ^^  Aquila  non  capit  muscas/' 
"  The  eagle  does  not  catch  flies  " ;  the  De  Bathes 
have  the  rather  cynical  phrase,  ^^  l^ec  parvis 
sisto/'  which  seems  to  mean,  "  I  don't  stick  at 
trifles."    The  Ousel eys  have  a  very  curious  motto, 


Mottoes  327 

*' Mors  lupi  agnh  vita"  "The  death  of  the  wolf 
is  life  to  the  lambs."  The  Peeks  bear  the  beauti- 
ful words,  "  Le  matt  re  vient/'  "  The  Master 
coraeth."  Lord  Deramore  has  "  Node  volamus" 
a  reference  to  the  bats^  wings  on  his  arms.  Lord 
Donington  has  the  pathetic  motto,  ''  Tenehras 
meas,"  which  perhaps  means  "  Lighten  our  dark- 
ness." The  Dnnconibes  bear  *'  yon  fecimus  ipsi/* 
"  We  did  not  achieve  it  of  ourselves."  The  Ayles- 
fords  bear  the  beautiful  motto,  very  hard  to  trans- 
late, "  Aperto  vivere  voto/'  which  means  "  To  live 
in  all  sincerity."  The  Duke  of  Marlborough  has, 
I  think,  a  Spanish  motto,  which  means  "  Faithful 
though  disgraced."  Lord  Carlisle  has  the  very 
pathetic  motto,  ^'  Yolo  non  valeo/'  "  I  desire  but 
I  cannot  perform."  The  Cadogans  carry  ^'^  Qui 
inridet  inferior  est,"  "  He  that  envies  is  the  lesser 
man." 

Of  the  Christian  mottoes  which  I  mentioned, 
Lord  Basing  bears  a  Greek  motto,  which  language 
is  rarely  used,  *'d  piT)  sv  tio  araupw" — Save  in  the 
Cross," —  the  words,  "  God  forbid  that  I  should 
glory,"  being  understood.  The  Lech  meres  have 
the  singular  phrase,  ^^  Christus  pelicano"  "  Christ 
in  the  pelican,"  with  reference  to  the  old  tradition 
of  the  jielican  feeding  her  young  with  her  own 
blood.  Lord  Clarendon  has  the  strange  motto, 
"  Fidei  coticula  crux,"  "  The  Cross  is  the  test  of 
faith  " — coticula  meaning  a  stone  used  for  testing 
metals. 

Enough   has,   I   hope,  been   said   to  show  the 


328  Along  the  Road 

interest  and  suggest! veness  of  these  pretty  sum- 
maries of  life  and  hope.  I  do  not  attach  too 
much  importance  to  them,  but  I  should  value  the 
possession  of  a  fine  mysterious  old  family  motto, 
which  one  could  hold  on  to  in  one's  heart  as  a 
comfort  in  perplexity  and  as  a  sort  of  battle-cry 
when  efi'ort  was  needed.  My  father  used  as  a 
young  man  to  bear  the  beautiful  motto,  ^^  Luce 
Magistra/'  "  With  light  as  my  guide  " ;  but  when 
he  became  Bishop  of  Truro  he  took  out  a  new 
patent  of  arms,  because  there  seemed  some  doubt 
as  to  his  right  to  the  arms  he  bore,  and  he  then 
went  back  to  a  fine  old  French  family  motto, 
^^  Fay  hien  crain  rien/'  which  I  have  carried  about 
with  me  engraved  on  a  gold  ring  for  so  many 
years  that  it  is  now  nearly  obliterated.  It  is  an 
inspiring  thing,  T  believe,  to  have  a  great,  wise, 
encouraging  maxim  to  which  one  succeeds  by  in- 
heritance, and  by  which  one  can  try  to  regulate 
one^s  conduct.  That  may  be  a  feeling  apart  from 
common  sense,  but  the  mind  and  heart  are  much 
affected  by  these  symbols  of  great  truths,  which 
can  consecrate  one's  hopes  in  the  old  knightly 
fashion.  The  truth  is  that  sentiment  does  play 
a  far  larger  part  in  the  world  than  we  are  most 
of  us  willing  to  admit.  A  great  many  men  and 
women  are  sustained  in  life  by  a  vague  sense  of 
the  superiority  of  their  family  traditions  to  the 
traditions  of  other  families.  They  would  dis- 
claim this  if  they  were  directly  taxed  with  it, 
but  the  fact  remains  that  they  secretly  believe 


Mottoes  329 

that  their  ways  of  doing  things,  their  dress,  their 
deportment,  their  recipes,  their  furniture,  indicate 
a  self-resi)ect  which  the  arrangements  of  others 
do  not  so  clearly  bespeak.  And  thus,  though 
family  pride  may  be  a  limited  and  unsympathetic 
affair,  yet  it  is  really  a  vei*y  active  force  in  the 
world,  and  leads  people  to  act,  from  a  prin- 
ciple of  nohlense  oblige,  in  a  way  which  on  the 
whole  encourages  dignity  and  decorum.  We  are 
swayed  more  by  instinct  than  by  reason  in 
the  affairs  of  life,  and  happily  for  us  the  reason 
which  would  in  public  discount,  let  us  say,  the 
sentiment  of  a  famil}^  motto  as  a  bit  of  unneces- 
sary emotion,  is  overcome  by  the  instinct  which 
leads  us  to  feel  that  our  family  traditions  expect 
a  certain  nobility  of  action  from  us,  and  to  con- 
demn ourselves  in  secret,  if  we  have  fallen  short 
of  the  standards  in  which  we  have  been  nurtured. 


ON  BEING  INTERRUPTED 

I  SUPPOSE  that  for  busy  people  there  are  few 
of  the  minor  ills  of  life  that  are  so  hard  to 
bear  philosophically  as  unnecessary  interrup- 
tions. Here  is  a  case  in  point.  Some  little  time 
ago,  I  had  secured,  I  thought,  one  evening,  a 
couple  of  hours  to  finish  off  a  bit  of  work  which 
had  to  be  done  by  a  certain  time.  I  had  just 
got  into  the  swing  of  it,  when  a  man  whom  I 
know  only  slightly  sent  in  his  name,  asking  if 
he  might  speak  to  me  for  a  moment.  I  had  been 
in  correspondence  with  him  about  fixing  the  date 
of  an  engagement  some  weeks  ahead.  I  had  sug- 
gested three  possible  dates,  and  all  that  he  had 
to  do  was  to  select  one.  He  came  in  with  a 
leisurely  air,  said  that  he  happened  to  be  passing 
through  Cambridge,  and  thought  it  would  be  so 
much  more  satisfactory  to  see  me.  ^'  It  is  so 
much  easier,"  he  said,  with  a  genial  smile,  "  to 
settle  these  things  at  an  inter vieio.'^  He  then 
produced  my  letter,  and  gave  me,  at  much  length, 
a  number  of  excellent  reasons  against  two  of  the 
dates  I  had  proposed.  I  said  that  it  was  all 
the  same  to  me,  so  we  would  fix  the  third  of  the 
330 


On  Being  Interrupted  331 

dates.  He  then  said  that  he  was  very  much  in- 
terested in  the  matter  that  was  going  to  be  dis- 
cussed on  the  occasion,  and  that  he  would  much 
like  to  have  an  opportunity  of  hearing  my  views 
on  the  subject.  He  then  occupied  over  half  an 
hour  in  giving  me  his  own  views  on  the  question, 
which  differed  from  my  own ;  but  when  I  at- 
tempted to  meet  any  of  his  points  he  held  up  his 
hand  and  said,  "  Pardon  me — I  should  just  like 
to  finish  my  statement  of  the  case;  I  shall  deal 
with  that  objection  in  a  moment."  So  it  went  on, 
and  at  the  end  of  about  an  hour,  he  said :  "  Well, 
I  must  not  take  up  your  time  any  longer;  I  am 
very  glad  to  have  had  this  opportunity  of  dis- 
cussing the  question  frankly."  Then  followed  a 
little  talk  on  general  topics  and  a  few  civilities, 
and  he  finally  took  his  departure  with  much 
courtesy. 

It  is  no  doubt  unreasonable  and  ungenial  to 
object  to  this  polite  kind  of  brigandage!  T  feel 
ashamed  to  reflect  how  much  annoyed  I  was  by 
the  invasion.  Yet  T  am  sure  that  the  worthy  man 
meant  well.  I  have  no  doubt  he  thought  in  a 
general  way  that  he  was  saving  me  the  trouble 
of  writing  a  letter,  and  he  also  wished  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  airing  his  views  on  the  par- 
ticular subject.  It  had  not,  I  am  sure,  occurred 
to  him  that  a  letter  could  have  been  written  in 
two  minutes,  or  that  I  might  not  desire  to  hear 
what  he  thought  on  the  question.  Yet  to  put  the 
matter  in  the  most  concrete  and  commercial  light, 


332  Along  the  Road 

he  was  depriving  me  not  only  of  time,  but  actually 
of  money,  by  his  call.  The  work  I  was  doing  was 
wage-earning  work;  and  this  is  the  disadvantage 
of  being  a  writer,  that  people  are  apt  to  think 
that  writing  can  be  done  at  any  time.  One  would 
not  venture  to  treat  a  doctor  or  a  lawyer  so. 

This  particular  case  is  no  doubt  an  extreme 
one,  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  could  have  met  it. 
It  would  have  been  uncivil  to  refuse  to  see  him, 
and  he  would  have  felt  himself  discourteously  used 
if  I  had  said,  like  Archbishop  Laud  on  a  similar 
occasion,  when  the  two  gentlemen  of  Wiltshire 
called  upon  him,  that  I  had  no  time  for  compli- 
ments, and  left  the  room  by  another  door. 

Of  course,  as  a  general  rule,  one  must  allow 
for  a  certain  inevitable  amount  of  interruption. 
As  a  college  official,  I  know  that,  day  by  day,  a 
certain  number  of  points  are  bound  to  turn  up, 
which  involve  one^s  suspending  whatever  one  has 
in  hand.  One  is  rung  up  on  the  telephone  to 
fix  an  engagement,  some  one  wants  to  borrow  a 
book,  a  proof  comes  in  to  be  corrected,  a  man 
comes  in  to  see  about  hanging  some  pictures  in 
the  library — every  one  knows  the  sort  of  triviali- 
ties. One  takes  such  things  as  part  of  the  day^s 
work,  and  deals  with  them  as  mechanically  as 
one  opens  an  umbrella  if  it  comes  on  to  rain. 
But  the  sort  of  interruption  which  one  entirely 
grudges  are  the  things  which  take  up  time  and 
patience  and  do  not  seem  to  have  anything  to 
justify  them.     T  remember  my  father,  when  he 


On  Being  Interrupted  333 

was  Archbishop,  saying  Ihat  the  sort  of  thing 
lie  found  so  hard  to  understand  the  use  of,  was 
when  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in 
travelling  to  fulfil  some  social  or  ceremonial  en- 
gagement, *^  when  for  all  the  good  I  did  I  might 
have  been  a  stuffed  seal !  "  A  day  gone  in  travel- 
ling and  in  vague  civilities,  with  perhaps  an  op- 
j)ortunity  of  making  a  ten  minutes'  speech!  T 
think  that  he  perhaps  naturally  underestimated 
the  effect  that  his  presence  probably  had  in  giv- 
ing a  stimulus  to  the  particular  enterprise.  But 
when,  day  after  day,  pressing  business  has  to  be 
laid  aside,  when  no  leisure  can  be  obtained  for 
quiet  reading  or  for  thinking  out  an  important 
matter,  then  it  must  be  difficult  for  a  busy  man 
not  to  say  to  himself,"  "  To  what  purpose  is  this 
waste?'' 

In  the  case  of  a  man  like  my  father,  who 
worked,  when  left  to  himself,  with  an  almost 
destructive  energy,  I  have  little  doubt  that  these 
distractions  were  really  a  blessing,  because  they 
gave  him  a  compulsory  rest.  But  there  is  a 
further  point  which  is  worth  considering.  There 
is  no  form  of  self-discipline  to  be  compared  to 
that  which  can  be  practised  by  dealing  with 
little  tiresome  engagements  and  interviews  and 
interruptions  in  a  perfectly  tranquil  and  good- 
liumoured  way,  giving  the  whole  of  one's  attention 
to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  not  allowing  the  visitor 
to  feel  that  he  is  being  hurried  or  that  he  has 
intruded.    I  remember  that  Bishop  Wilkinson  said 


334  Along  the  Road 

with  great  sternness  to  a  friend  of  mine,  who  had 
been  late  for  an  engagement,  "  You  ought  to  be 
punctual;  but  if  you  are  not  punctual,  you  must 
not  allow  yourself  to  be  fussed,  or  you  commit  a 
double  fault.  Now  that  you  are  here,  we  will 
both  discuss  the  matter  as  carefully  and  delib- 
erately as  if  you  had  been  in  time." 

After  all,  few  people's  time  is  as  valuable  as 
all  that!  We  are  not  put  into  the  world  to 
carry  out  our  own  programme  exactly  and  pre- 
cisely, but  to  rub  shoulders  with  other  people,  to 
increase  our  sympathies,  to  make  others  feel  at 
ease,  to  add  to  the  general  geniality  of  life.  We 
must  not,  of  course,  allow  casual  encounters 
with  other  people  to  thrust  our  particular  bit  of 
work  into  a  corner,  or,  like  an  acquaintance  of 
my  own,  go  about  paying  calls  and  complaining 
that  our  social  engagements  leave  us  no  time  to 
read  or  think.  But  we  are  in  the  world  to  live, 
and  interruptions,  as  we  call  them,  are  part  of 
life. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  which  is  more 
gratifying  and  encouraging  than  to  have  an  inter- 
view with  some  busy  public  man,  and  to  find  him, 
to  all  appearances,  kindly,  amiable,  and  leisurely. 
I  had  to  see  the  head  of  a  great  department  the 
other  day  on  a  small  point  of  business.  I  know 
what  his  work  is,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  take  up 
his  time.  But  instead  of  a  brief  and  severe  inter- 
view, I  came  away  feeling  that  I  had  made  a 
friend.     The  great  man  had  thrown  himself  back 


On  Being  Interrupted  335 

in  his  chair,  had  dealt  in  a  few  words  with  the 
points  before  us,  and  had  then  talked  genially 
and  interestingly  about  the  further  issues  raised, 
inviting  criticism  and  weighing  suggestions.  As 
I  went  out  another  visitor  was  shown  in.  I  do 
not  know  if  the  minister  was  bewailing  his 
hard  fate  inwardly,  but  there  was  not  a  sign 
of  anything  but  goodwill  and  interest  in  his 
kindly  smile,  his  pleasant  handshake,  and  his 
courteous  invitation  to  me  to  interview  him 
again  if  the  matter  proved  not  to  be  perfectly 
clear. 

The  important  thing  is  not  to  lose  our  hold 
upon  life;  it  is  a  great  temptation  to  busy  and 
energetic  people  to  overvalue  their  work  and  to 
undervalue  their  relations  with  others.  But 
routine-work  is  not  necessarily  valuable,  except  in 
so  far  as  It  is  a  discipline  against  restlessness,  in  so 
far  as  it  steadies  and  strengthens  character.  No 
one  can  avoid  drudgery,  but  on  the  other  hand 
mere  purposeless  drudgery  is  not  valuable  at  all ; 
it  consumes  energy  and  it  diminishes  vitality.. 
Nothing  is  so  clearly  stated  in  the  Gospel  as  the 
principle  that  we  ought  not  to  get  immersed  in 
the  details  of  life  so  as  to  lose  sight  of  higher 
and  wider  things;  and  a  man  who  gets  so  at- 
tached to  routine-work  that  he  cannot  bear  the 
smallest  deviation  from  it,  is  little  better  than 
the  miser  who  can  think  of  nothing  but  his 
money ;  both  the  drudge  and  the  miser  are  infected 
by  a  perverted  virtue:  the  one  begins  by  believing 


336  Along  the  Road 

in   economy,   and   both   end   by   becoming   mere 
machines. 

Interruptions,  then,  are  often  but  the  influx  of 
the  tide  of  humanity  into  the  ordered  life.  The 
danger  nowadays  is  that  we  all  tend  to  become 
specialists ;  and  specialism  unduly  pursued  means 
a  loss  of  due  proportion.  A  father  who  is  so 
busy  that  he  cannot  find  time  to  see  anything  of 
his  children,  however  exalted  a  view  he  may  take 
of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  work,  is  really 
not  doing  his  duty  at  all,  but  sacrificing  duty  to 
inclination.  Horace  says  that  it  is  pleasant  to 
play  the  fool  in  season;  it  is  not  only  pleasant, 
it  is  a  plain  Christian  duty  to  cultivate  affection- 
ate relations  with  others,  and  to  contribute  one's 
share  to  the  genial  current  of  the  world.  I  re- 
member an  excellent  schoolmaster  who  was  very 
anxious  on  principle  to  make  friends  with  his 
boys,  but  if  an  old  pupil  dropped  in  to  see  him, 
he  fidgeted  in  his  chair,  hummed  and  hawed, 
glanced  at  his  watch,  kept  the  papers  he  was 
correcting  in  his  hand,  and  gave  such  a  sense 
that  his  precious  time  was  being  wasted  that 
the  attempt  was  seldom  made  a  second  time. 
The  other  day  I  had  a  severe  lesson  myself,  which 
I  hope  to  take  to  heart.  A  colleague  of  my  own 
at  Cambridge  said  to  me  that  an  undergraduate 
would  like  to  consult  me  on  a  small  matter.  I 
said,  "Why  does  he  not  come  to  see  me?"  The 
reply  was,  "  He  would  like  to,  but  he  is  afraid 
of  interrupting  you."     I   quite  appreciated  the 


On  Being  Interrupted  337 

couitesy  and  consideration  of  the  young  man; 
but  for  all  that  I  look  upon  it  as  a  severe  and 
probably  merited  criticism,  and  I  do  not  relish 
a  compliment  to  my  industry  at  the  expense  of 
my  humanity. 

The  gist  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  we  must 
teach  ourselves  to  regard  interruptions  not  as 
necessary  evils,  but  as  welcome  links  with  the 
world.  We  must  court  them  rather  than  resent 
them,  and  we  must  practise,  as  far  as  we  can, 
the  art  of  never  being  preoccupied  or  hurried  or 
snappish,  remembering  that  however  important 
our  work  and  occupation  may  seem,  we  are  human 
beings  first,  and  that  no  ideal,  however  zealously 
pursued,  can  supersede  the  claims  and  the  duties 
and  the  amenities  of  life. 


DEMOCRACY 

Tt  is  recorded  that  some  one,  talking  to  Arch- 
bishop Tait  about  Church  affairs,  used  the  phrase, 
"the  present  crisis."  "What  crisis?"  said  the 
Archbishop;  "there  has  always  been  a  crisis  in 
Church  affairs,  ever  since  I  was  old  enough  to 
remember."  The  same  is  probably  true  of  all 
affairs,  political  as  well  as  ecclesiastical.  But 
the  interest,  and  perhaps  we  may  add,  the  anxiety 
of  the  present  crisis  in  politics  is  simply  this. 
The  people  have  not  been  given  power,  nor  have 
they  exactly  taken  it — they  have  simply  found 
out  how  to  use  the  power  they  have  long  had; 
and  the  question  is :  How  is  this  going  to  affect 
our  social  life?  That  is  the  only  interest  that 
there  is  in  politics  for  ordinary  people.  What 
most  of  us  desire  is  to  be  as  free  as  possible  to 
live  on  the  lines  we  desire,  and  to  be  governed 
as  little  as  4)ossible.  Politics  are  no  doubt  an 
excellent  and  exciting  game  for  the  people  who 
have  a  hand  in  them.  But  the  less  need  there  is 
for  politics,  the  happier  a  State  is.  If  everyone 
were  rational  and  considerate  and  disinterested, 
there  would  be  no  need  for  politics  at  all. 
338 


Democracy  339 

The  ordinary  man  is  no  more  interested  in 
technical  i)olitics  than  he  is  interested  in  culinary 
processes.  What  he  wants  is  a  well-cooked  dinner 
at  a  reasonable  cost;  and  as  long  as  he  gets  that, 
he  cares  ver}'  little  how  it  is  prepared.  If  his 
dinner  goes  on  being  ill-cooked,  and  still  more  if 
it  continues  to  be  expensive  as  well,  he  may  go 
into  the  kitchen  and  kick  the  jmts  and  pans  about, 
and  even  dismiss  the  cook;  and  in  politics  that 
is  a  revolution.  But  what  the  ordinary  man 
wants  is  to  get  the  most  and  the  best  out  of 
life.  .  The  worst  of  it  is  that  the  process  of  get- 
ting the  most  out  of  life  in  many  cases  involves 
other  people  iti  not  getting  anything  out  of  life 
except  unpleasant  drudgery:  and  it  can  hardly 
be  exi)ected  that  the  drudges  should  acquiesce. 
There  was  once  an  aged  nobleman  who  closed  his 
park  to  the  public  because  he  said  that  it  fussed 
him  and  destroyed  his  sense  of  privacy  to  see 
anyone  within  five  hundred  yards  of  his  house. 
He  had  a  perfect  right  to  feel  like  that,  and  if 
he  could,  to  secure  his  own  comfort ;  but  if  every- 
one in  an  over-populated  country  felt  the  same, 
it  is  evident  that  there  would  not  be  enough 
privacy  to  go  round. 

The  object,  of  course,  of  a  State  should  be  to 
secure  the  welfare  of  the  many  at  the  cost  of  the 
least  possible  inconvenience  to  the  few.  There 
must,  of  course,  be  inconvenience  from  time  to 
time.  If  a  man  in  a  town  has  small-pox,  it  is 
no  doubt  much  pleasanter  for  him  to  be  nursed 


340  Along  the  Road 

in  his  own  home;  but  the  community  have  a 
perfect  right  to  compel  him  to  be  moved  to  an 
isolation  hospital.  They  cannot  be  expected  to  sub- 
ordinate their  unwillingness  to  catch  small-pox 
to  his  claim  for  personal  comfort.  Of  course,  it 
involves  a  certain  injustice  if  a  majority  of  people 
have  to  coerce  a  minority.  But  it  is  plain  that 
it  is  at  least  more  fair  than  that  a  minority  should 
coerce  a  majority.  The  duty  of  the  State  is  to 
give  all  its  members  equal  opportunities,  to  re- 
ward them  according  to  their  merits,  to  safeguard 
the  weak,  and  to  aim  at  educating  everyone  to 
take  a  reasonable,  sensible,  and  good-humoured 
view  of  the  rights  of  others. 

Probably  the  interests  of  the  State  are  best 
served  by  encouraging  all  individual  talent  and 
enterprise  as  far  as  possible.  The  more  that 
people  have  motives  for  exertion,  for  making  the 
best  of  themselves  and  their  talents,  the  whole- 
somer  and  stronger  the  State  will  be.  If  it 
attempts  to  subordinate  people  too  much,  to  claim 
the  same  amount  of  the  same  kind  of  labour  from 
everyone,  no  matter  what  their  dispositions  and 
faculties  may  be,  one  gets  a  kind  of  lifeless  social- 
ism which  is  fatal  to  vitality  and  progress. 
Charles  Kingsley  was  once  travelling  in  the 
United  States  and  met  a  newspaper  editor  who 
said  to  him :  "  Mr.  Kingsley,  I  hear  you  are  a 
democrat.  Well,  so  am  I.  My  motto  is,  *  When- 
ever you  see  a  head  above  the  crowd,  hit  it.' " 
"  Good    heavens ! "    said    Kingsley,    commenting 


Democracy  341 

upon  the  remark,  "  what  a  gliastlj*  couceptioii 
of  human  equality,  to  attempt,  not  to  raise  every 
one  to  the  level  of  the  best,  but  to  boycott  all 
force,  all  originality,  all  nobility,  and  to  reduce 
all  to  a  dead  level!  If  that  is  democracy,  I  am 
no  democrat ! " 

I  was  talking  the  other  day  to  a  well-known 
man,  who  said  to  me  that  he  was  perpetually 
surprised  and  interested  by  the  very  feminine 
view  which  his  wife  took  of  politics.  They  had 
been  reading  some  political  speech  or  other,  and 
his  wife  made  a  depreciatory  criticism.  "  I  see 
you  are  not  interested  in  democracy,"  said  my 
friend.  His  wife  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  said :  "  Xo,  I  am  not — I  am  only  interested 
in  the  persons  whom  democracy  brings  to  the 
front."  That  is  a  very  sane  and  wholesome  critic- 
ism. The  thing  which  makes  many  people  fight 
shy  of  democracy  is  that  it  seems  to  be  the  glori- 
fication of  the  average  man,  and  not  of  the  ideal 
man.  The  average  man  is  not  interesting.  There 
was  a  curious  series  of  portraits  some  time  ago 
in  the  Strand  Magazine,  T  think,  obtained  by 
photographing  hundreds  of  people  on  the  same 
])late,  so  that  one  obtained  a  sort  of  average 
human  being.  The  interest  of  the  pictures  to 
me  was  the  extremely  undistinguished  and  even 
muzzy  result.  Not  only  had  the  average  man  as 
thus  depicted  not  a  single  attractive  feature,  he 
was  mean,  vacuous,  suspicious,  and  dull.  The  last 
thing  that  one  desires   for  humanity   is   to  co- 


34^  Along  the  Road 

ordinate   them    ou   uninteresting    lines,    and   to 
reduce  all  to  a  prosaic  type. 

The  views  of  the  average  man  form  what  is 
commonly  known  as  public  opinion,  and  public 
opinion  is  a  very  curious  thing  to  study.  The 
people  who  form  it  cannot  express  it;  they  are 
imperturbably  silent.  They  do  not  even  know 
what  they  think.  They  know  what  they  think, 
when  it  is  put  to  them;  but  they  are  not  per- 
suaded or  convinced.  If  a  view  consonant  with 
public  opinion  is  expressed  to  them,  they  say: 
"  Yes,  I  think  that !  "  If  a  view  at  variance  with 
public  opinion  is  expressed  to  them,  they  say: 
"  That  is  stuff  and  nonsense ! "  The  same  view 
that  they  have  condemned  will  perhaps  be  ex- 
pressed to  them  a  few  years  later,  and  they  will 
have  found  out  that  they  do  think  so,  and  will 
say :  "  Yes,  that  is  sensible."  But  where  it  all 
comes  from,  and  how  the  process  of  leavening 
takes  place,  is  undiscoverable.  It  is  simply  there. 
Public  opinion  is  deeply  sensitive  to  anything 
that  is  picturesque  and  pathetic.  A  single  strik- 
ing incident  has  more  weight  with  it  than  a  row 
of  excellent  reasons.  The  curious  thing  is  that 
it  is  not  very  sensible;  it  is  melodramatic  and 
it  is  sentimental.  Sometimes  it  is  attracted  by 
a  personality,  by  look  or  gesture  or  eloquence, 
and  it  swallows  a  set  of  opinions  whole.  "  So- 
and-so  says  that,  and  it  must  be  right."  The 
truth  is  that  it  is  really  a  kind  of  childlike  in- 
stinct for  what  is  likeable  and  pleasant,  not  a 


Democracy  343 

reasoned  thing  at  all;  and  perhaps  the  best 
service  that  a  man  can  do  to  his  generation  is 
to  present  reasonable  ideas  and  principles  in  a 
striking  or  attractive  light,  and  thus  contribute 
to  the  enlargement  and  enlightenment  of  public 
opinion. 

But  the  worst  thing  that  anyone  can  do  is 
to  yield  to  i)essimistic  panic.  Things  do  not 
really  change  very  fast;  even  a  tremendous  up- 
heaval like  the  French  Revolution  did  not  affect 
tlie  ordinary  life  of  France  very  deeply.  One 
class  was  affected  most  prejudicially  by  it;  but 
there  was  no  great  levelling  of  property,  no  very 
marked  increase  of  social  equality.  What  the 
duty  of  the  ordinary  citizen  is,  is  to  make  just 
concessions  amiably,  and  to  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness. It  is  not  as  though  a  majority  of  any 
country  are  ever  in  favour  of  general  insecurity 
and  pillage.  "  No  gentleman,"  says  even  the 
atrocious  Mr.  Hyde,  in  Stevenson's  great  allegory, 
"  but  wishes  to  avoid  a  row."  What  most  sen- 
sible people  desire  is  labour,  order,  and  peace. 
Most  reasonable  people  like  work,  and  feel  dull 
without  it;  and  nearly  all  desire  an  orderly  and 
I)eaceful  home;  and  democracy  is  just  as  much 
interested  in  securing  all  that  as  the  most  en- 
lightened of  despots.  What  a  democracy  is  per- 
fectly right  in  demanding  is  the  amelioration  of 
conditions  which  reduce  labour  to  helpless 
drudgery,  and  make  the  orderly  and  peaceful 
home  impossible.     But  this  cannot  be  secured  by 


344  Along  the  Road 

universal  pillage.  The  luxuries  whicli  democracy 
has  a  perfect  right  to  say  shall  not  be  indulged 
in  are  the  luxuries  of  idleness  and  disorder  and 
contempt  and  oppression.  Public  opinion  has 
made  itself  felt  on  these  points  already,  and  it 
is  likely  to  make  itself  still  more  felt.  The  hope 
of  the  nation  lies  in  a  sincere  attempt  to  amelio- 
rate evil  conditions  of  existence,  in  bringing 
wholesome  and  ennobling  pleasures  within  the 
reach  of  all,  and  in  aiming  at  simplicity  of  life 
and  cordial  relations;  it  cannot  be  done  in  a 
moment;  but  neither  can  it  be  done  by  grudging 
and  resentful  acquiescence  in  movements  which 
one  is  powerless  to  check.  We  must  agree  swiftly, 
as  the  Gospel  says,  and  it  is  better  to  meet  the 
reasonable  demand  than  to  have  the  uttermost 
farthing  extorted. 


ABSENT-MINDEDNESS 

Absent-mindedness  is  not  in  itself  a  charm,  but 
I  have  seldom  known  an  absent-minded  person 
who  was  not  charming.  It  generally  goes  with 
guilelessness,  sweet  temper,  and  dreaminess.  One 
of  the  reasons,  indeed,  why  absent-mindedness, 
which  has  its  inconveniences  both  for  its  owner 
and  others,  survives  in  a  temperament,  is  because 
the  person  in  question  is  generally  incapable  of  be- 
ing vexed  or  put  out  by  small  forgetfulnesses  and 
absurdities;  if  he  is  so  vexed,  he  generally  learns, 
very  speedily,  presence  of  mind,  or  whatever  is 
the  precise  opposite  of  absent-mindedness.  But 
besides  a  certain  childlikeness  of  nature,  absent- 
mindedness  generally  implies  distinct  mental 
ability,  and  the  power  of  being  absorbed  in  a 
train  of  thought.  Indeed  absent-mindedness  com- 
bined with  irritability  and  stupidity  would  result 
in  about  as  unpleasing  a  mixture  of  qualities  as 
it  would  be  possible  to  conceive  of! 

One  of  the  most  absent-minded  people  I  ever 

knew  was  a  more  or  less  distinguished  ecclesiastic 

at  whose  house  I  used  to  visit  as  a  child.     He  had 

won  some  fame  in  his  youth  as  a  poet,  and  he 

345 


346  Along  the  Road 

was,  when  I  remember  him,  a  preacher  of  some 
force ;  but  he  could  not  be  depended  upon  in  that 
capacity.  Whatever  he  was  interested  in  at  the 
moment  he  preached  about,  and  he  had  the  power 
of  being  interested  in  very  dreary  things.  His 
sermons  were  like  reveries;  indeed,  his  whole 
rendering  of  the  service  was  that  of  a  man  who 
was  reading  a  book  to  himself  and  often  finding 
it  unexpectedly  beautiful  and  interesting.  The 
result  was  sometimes  extremely  startling,  because 
one  felt  as  if  one  had  never  heard  the  familiar 
words  before.  I  remember  his  reading  the  ac- 
count of  the  Nativity  in  a  wonderfully  feeling 
manner,  "  because  there  was  no  room  for  them 
at  the  inn."  I  do  not  know  how  the  effect  was 
communicated;  it  was  delivered  with  a  half- 
mournful,  half-incredulous  smile.  If  those  who 
refused  them  admittance  had  only  known  what 
they  were  doing! 

He  had  a  great  head  of  hair,  my  old  friend, 
which  looked  as  if  it  were  never  brushed;  great 
hollow  melancholy  eyes,  and  a  deliberate,  mourn- 
ful voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  very  far 
away.  He  was  always  dressed  with  great  shabbi- 
ness,  and  had  yet  a  remote  and  stately  air.  He 
used  to  be  an  object  partly  of  terror  and  partly 
of  sympathy  to  us  children.  He  never  seemed  to 
recognise  us,  and  had  a  way  of  gently  detaining 
us  with  a  hand  if  he  met  us,  and  saying,  "  I 
know  who  you  are,  child,  but  I  can't  find  the 
name ! "—  and  if  there  is  one  thing  of  which  a 


Absent-Mindedness  347 

child  is  incapable,  it  is  of  eimnciatiug  its  Olirist- 
ian  name  and  surname  in  public.  I  don't  think 
lie  was  an  effective  clergyman,  because  he  seldom 
knew  his  parishioners  by  sight;  but  he  was  re- 
garded with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  compassion. 
A  friend  of  his  told  me  that  she  was  once  sitting 
with  his  wife — he  had  fallen  in  love  in  his  time 
and  had  somehow  or  other  found  words  to  com- 
municate the  fact — when  he  came  in  with  one  of 
his  sleeves  turned  up,  and  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  made  a  great  discovery.  He  had  caught  sight 
of  the  lining  of  his  coat,  and  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  it  formed  a  little  coat  of  itself,  inside  the 
other.  His  idea  was  that,  if  it  were  taken  out,  it 
would  make  a  pretty  little  summer  jacket  for  him, 
and  he  made  the  suggestion  with  an  air  of  deep 
practical  sagacity.  He  was  adored  in  his  own  fam- 
ily for  his  sweetness  and  helplessness,  and  he  was 
tenderly  guarded  and  interpreted  to  the  world. 

There  is  a  charming  story  by  a  German  novelist 
— Freytag,  I  think — which  depicts  a  professor  of 
the  same  unworldly,  contemplative  kind.  He  goes 
to  spend  the  day  at  a  friend's  house,  and  unfortu- 
nately hears  the  cry  of  some  fowls  which  are 
being  killed  for  the  dinner,  with  the  result  that 
he  loses  his  appetite  and  cannot  touch  any  food. 
The  careful,  homely  hostess,  when  he  goes  away, 
insists  on  giving  him  a  cold  chicken  wrapi)ed  up 
in  paper,  that  when  he  gets  home  he  may  not  be 
starved.  The  faithful  house-dog  sees  the  pro- 
fessor pocket  this  in  the  hall,  and  gets  into  his 


348  Along  the  Road 

sagacious  head  the  idea  that  the  professor  is 
a  thief;  so  he  slips  out  with  him  and  tugs 
at  his  pocket  as  he  goes  along.  Every  time  that 
the  dog  tugs,  the  professor  takes  off  his  hat, 
and  as  the  dog  continues  tugging,  the  professor 
says,  "  Thank  you,  dear,  I  did  bow ! "  The  fact 
is  that  the  professor's  sister  has  arranged  that 
when  she  is  out  walking  with  him,  and  they  pass 
someone  whom  the  professor  ought  to  salute, 
but  whom  he  will  certainly  not  recognise,  she 
should  give  him  a  signal  to  remove  his  hat  by 
pulling  at  his  coat. 

The  most  notable  instance  of  absent-minded- 
ness, or  ratber  abstraction,  I  ever  saw,  was  when 
I  was  a  young  man;  I  was  in  London,  and  as 
I  walked  up  Whitehall,  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was 
then  Premier,  came  out  of  Downing  Street,  and 
turned  up  to  Trafalgar  Square.  I  walked  for 
some  way  just  belli nd  him.  He  was  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  some  train  of  thought.  He  was  rather 
shabbily  dressed,  in  an  old  frock-coat  and  ill- 
brushed  hat;  and  I  remember  noticing  that  his 
trousers  were  so  much  trodden  down  at  the  heel 
that  the  threads  of  the  fabric  swept  the  ground. 
One  of  his  hands  was  clenched  at  his  side,  and  as 
he  walked  he  kept  opening  the  fingers  suddenly 
and  closing  them  again.  It  was  at  a  time  when 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  political  animus — I 
expect  over  Home  Kule — and  I  was  amused  and 
interested  to  see  the  sort  of  greetings  he  got. 
Some  people  stood  still  as  he  passed,  bareheaded, 


Absent-Mindedness  349 

hat  in  hand.  Two  fashionably-dressed  women  in 
a  victoria  turned  round  to  observe  him,  and  one 
of  them  shook  her  fist  at  him.  But  the  great  man 
walked  along,  entirely  oblivious  of  everything, 
just  removing  his  hat  occasionally  when  he  was 
very  markedly  and  insistently  saluted.  I  am  sure 
I  never  saw  any  man  show  such  entire  uncon- 
sciousness of  his  surroundings,  and  it  was  an 
extremely  impressive  sight. 

I  suppose  that  of  all  the  interesting  figures  of 
the  last  century  the  most  abstracted  by  far  was 
the  poet  Coleridge  in  his  later  days.  He  held  a 
sort  of  little  court  at  Highgate,  where  he  lived  in 
a  doctor^s  house,  and  discoursed  of  lofty  subjects 
in  a  continuous  and  misty  monologue  to  an  ad- 
miring throng.  There  is  a  delicious  description 
of  the  ceremony  in  Carlyle's  Life  of  Sterling,  one 
of  the  most  picturesque  and  humorous  passages 
which  Carlyle  ever  put  on  paper.  Carlyle  re- 
garded the  oracle  with  extreme  interest  and  very 
decided  contempt.  He  said  that  he  listened  to 
tlie  poet  discoursing  for  two  stricken  hours  with- 
out conveying  to  any  of  his  hearers  the  slightest 
idea  of  what  he  was  talking  about.  Charles 
li.nnb  invented  one  of  his  most  humorous  stories 
to  illustrate  the  same  thing.  He  said  that  he 
met  Coleridge  on  Hampstead  Heath,  and  that 
Coleridge  took  him  aside  into  a  dingle,  laid  hold 
of  the  button  of  his  coat,  and  began  to  expound 
some  abstruse  subject  with  extraordinary  earnest- 
ness.    Lamb  remembered  that  he  had  an  appoint- 


350  Along  the  Road 

ment  elsewhere,  but  saw  no  way  of  escaping,  until 
at  last  in  desperation  he  got  out  a  knife,  severed 
the  button  from  his  coat,  leaving  it  in  Coleridge's 
fingers,  and  slipped  away.  Some  hours  later  he 
returned  and  heard  Coleridge's  voice  rolling  and 
echoing  in  a  full  tide  of  eloquence  among  the 
gorse-bushes.  Lamb  said  that  he  went  quietly 
back  to  his  place,  and  that  Coleridge  continued 
the  exposition,  never  having  noticed  his  absence, 
and  still  clasping  the  severed  button. 

It  was  an  inherited  characteristic  with  Cole- 
ridge. His  father,  I  believe,  or  possibly  his 
grandfather,  who  was  a  clergyman,  had  been 
known  to  walk  into  the  vestry  in  the  course  of 
the  service,  and  then,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
there  was  more  to  come,  he  would  divest  himself 
of  his  robes  and  go  back  to  the  vicarage,  leaving 
the  congregation  waiting. 

A  friend  of  mine  once  told  me  that  when  he 
was  a  boy  an  absent-minded  friend,  who  was  a 
very  fine  reader,  came  to  stay  for  a  Sunday  with 
his  father,  who  was  a  country  squire.  His  father 
was  accustomed  to  read  the  lessons  in  church,  but 
being  kept  away  that  morning  by  a  cold,  he  asked 
the  friend  to  read  them  instead  of  him.  He 
gladly  consented.  What  was  the  consternation 
of  the  congregation  when  the  stranger  left  the 
family  pew  at  the  end  of  the  Venite^  and  walked 
briskly  to  the  lectern.  The  clergyman  was,  how- 
ever, equal  to  the  situation.  He  leant  forwards 
and  said  in  a  very  deferential   manner  to  the 


Absent-Mindedness  351 

eager  aspirant,  "  We  had  thought  of  having  the 
Psalms  first,"  as  if  they  were  for  once  departing 
from  the  ordinary  ritual.  The  friend  was  not  in 
the  least  discomposed,  said  with  a  polite  bow, 
"By  all  means,"  and  returned  to  his  place  with 
perfect  equanimity.  It  is^  lust  that  traaquillity 
oX_uerve  which  makes  abstraction  possible,  and 
also  removes  jany  of  ihe^  usual  misery  of  having 
^ade  a  ridiculous  mistake. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  fact  that  absent- 
mindedness  is  rather  a  charming  quality,  or  at 
all  events  an  accompaniment  of  charming  quali- 
ties, it  is  not  a  thing  to  practise  or  to  indulge, 
and  absent-minded  people  ought  as  far  as  possible 
in  early  life  to  endeavour  to  bring  themselves 
into  line  with  the  world.  One  does  not  as  a  rule 
commit  important  business,  which  needs  to  be 
punctually  i>erformed,  to  a  man  liable  to  fits  of 
abstraction;  and  the  absent-minded  are  only  too 
apt  to  slip  dreamily  and  good-naturedly  through 
life,  engaged  in  very  harmless  and  amiable  trains 
of  thought,  but  effecting  nothing  and  doing  very 
little  to  keep  the  world  on  the  right  lines.  In- 
deed, the  chief  use  of  the  absent-minded  man  is 
to  give  to  his  own  circle  the  anxious  and  tender 
care  of  one  who  is  not  adapted  to  the  rigidity  of 
circumstance  and  routine,  and  to  evoke  a  sort  of 
amused  love,  which  is  beautiful  because  it  centres 
on  a  character  which  is  so  childlike  and  pure, 
and  which  never  discovers  that  all  are  not  as 
guileless  and  disinterested  as  himself. 


PEACE 

I  SAT  listening  the  other  day  to  a  beautiful  sermon 
on  the  Peace  of  God,  on  the  text,  "  My  peace  I 
leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you;  not 
as  the  world  giveth  give  I  unto  you/'  It  was  a 
beautiful  sermon,  as  I  say,  the  sentences  clear 
and  strong,  the  thoughts  delicate  and  refined,  and 
the  whole  of  it  transfused  with  a  fine  emotion. 
The  Christian,  said  the  preacher,  was  to  seek 
peace  and  make  peace  by  every  means  in  his 
power,  but  he  was  never  to  sacrifice  principle, 
or  to  abandon  what  he  held  to  be'  true.  He  in- 
stanced the  case  of  the  Congo  atrocities,  and  he 
said  that  this  afforded  a  good  illustration  of 
the  point.  The  Christian  must  protest  against 
tyranny  and  wrong-doing,  even  if  his  protest  were 
to  endanger  the  peace  of  Europe.  And  then  he 
went  on  to  speak  of  the  doctrines  of  the  faith, 
and  he  said  that  a  man  must  never  conceal  or 
dissemble  his  belief  in  those  doctrines  in  order 
to  conciliate  an  opponent,  even  though  he  knew 
that  the  result  must  be  strife  and  hostility. 

And  then  the  preacher  went  on  to  speak  of 
the  other  side  of  the  question,  the  peace  which 

352 


Peace  353 

must  keep  the  hearts  and  minds  of  believers,  the 
peace  that  comes  from  the  sense  of  work  faith- 
fully done,  and  under  the  blessing  of  which  a 
man  mi^ht  wait  patiently  for  whatever  God  chose 
to  send  him.  By  this  time  I  was  wishing,  as  I 
often  do,  to  ask  the  preacher  some  questions,  that 
he  might,  if  he  could,  resolve  the  difficulties  of 
Ills  theme;  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was 
straining  the 'sense  of  the  word  peace  somewhat. 
That  is  always  the  difficulty  of  using  these  large 
vague,  indistinct  words,  which  have  a  hundred 
shades  of  meaning.  In  the  first  place,  I  felt  I 
could  have  no  clear  idea  of  what  peace  was,  if 
the  aiming  at  it  might  result  in  hostility.  Let 
me  take  this  point  first,  and  try  to  disentangle 
what  I  mean.  Peace,  in  its  ordinary  sense,  in- 
volves, I  think,  some  suspension  or  cessation  of 
strife  and  hostility.  It  is  a  calm  security  which 
falls  ui)on  the  minds  of  those  who  have  been 
involved  in  some  wrangling  dispute,  some  heated 
animosity.  The  essence  of  it  seems  to  be  that 
man  can,  while  it  lasts,  feel  a  sense  of  safety  and 
leisure  and  goodwill,  when  he  can  give  himself 
wholly  to  work  or  thought  which  involves  no 
interference  with  the  rights  and  joys  of  others, 
and  further,  it  is  a  state  in  which  he  fears  no 
invasion  of  his  rights,  no  violence  or  menaces,  but 
is  sure  that  his  neighbours  regard  him  with  the 
same  kindness  and  benevolence  with  which  he 
regards  them.  And  thus  it  seems  to  me  essen- 
tially a  state  of  things  where  men  have  not  only 
23 


354  Along  the  Road 

agreed  to  drop  differences,  but  to  unite  in  sym- 
pathy and  goodwill. 

Now  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  it  can  be 
described  as  peace  when  two  adversaries  agree, 
as  it  is  called,  to  differ.  It  is  not  peace  when 
a  man  says,  "  So-and-so  is  an  unreasonable  and 
wrong-headed  person.  He  is  wholly  wedded  to 
his  own  erroneous  ideas,  and  is  unable  to  see 
another's  point  of  view.  But  it  is  not  worth 
while  squabbling  and  coming  to  blows  over  the 
question.  He  will  find  out  his  mistake  in  time." 
That  does  not  seem  to  me  a  peaceful  attitude  at 
all!  The  attitude  of  peace  appears  to  me  to  be 
when  a  man  says :  "  Whatever  happens,  there  must 
be  no  animosity  between  me  and  So-and-so.  It 
is  true  that  he  sees  things  in  a  different  light; 
but  in  a  matter  of  opinion,  which  cannot  be  scien- 
tifically demonstrated,  he  has  as  much  right  to 
his  belief  as  I  have.  My  own  view  may  be  wrong, 
but  it  is  the  best  I  can  arrive  at,  and  my  observa- 
tions lead  me  to  think  it  is  true,  and  I  must  work 
on  in  the  light  of  my  thought,  just  as  he  must. 
After  all,  we  agree  about  the  main  principles, 
and  can  live  in  amity  and  love."  If  one  sees  two 
good  people,  kindly,  active,  unselfish,  virtuous, 
disagreeing  fiercely  on  some  point  of  detail,  it  is 
generally  safe  to  assume  that  the  detail  is  in 
reality  unimportant,  or  that  they  need  not  either 
of  them  be  in  the  right ;  for  the  melancholy  thing 
is  that  a  difference  of  opinion  about  details  divides 
people  far  more  than  an  agreement  about  prin- 


Peace  355 

ciples  unites  them.  I  remember  once  how  sharply 
a  congregation  were  divided  about  the  erection 
of  a  crucifix  in  a  church.  One  section  held  that 
it  was  a  beautiful  and  natural  emblem  of  re- 
demption; another  section  held,  with  even  greater 
vehemence,  that  it  was  a  symbol  which  suggested 
and  encouraged  idolatry.  Both  parties  had,  no 
doubt,  some  right  on  their  side;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  a  case  where  the  section  who  approved 
should  have  given  way  to  the  section  who  ob- 
jected, because,  in  any  case,  worship  was  possible 
without  the  crucifix.  But  the  defenders  of  the 
symbol  chose  rather  to  consider  the  objection  as 
an  almost  blasphemous  wrong  done  to  the  honour 
of  our  Lord,  and  so  the  unhappy  strife  continued. 
There  seems  to  me  no  meaning  at  all  in  the 
beatitude  about  peacemakers,  unless  a  Christian 
is  ready  to  make  some  sacrifice  and  compromise, 
or  at  all  events  to  give  up  pressing  some  aspect 
of  doctrine  as  undeniably  true.  A  man  may  well, 
in  his  own  mind  and  heart,  believe  that  a  certain 
doctrine  is  true,  without  wishing  to  enforce  the 
concurrence  in  it  upon  those  who  quite  sincerely 
do  not  believe  it  to  be  true.  Take,  for  instance, 
such  a  doctrine  as  that  of  infant  baptism ;  a  man 
may  trust  the  tradition  of  his  Church,  and  say 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  tell  with  exactness  when 
the  conception  of  moral  truth  dawns  upon  a 
childish  mind,  and  that  it  is  a  great  strength  for 
a  child  to  realise,  as  soon  as  it  realises  anything, 
that  it  is  a  baptised  member  of  Christ's  Church. 


356  Along  the  Road 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  maintain  that 
there  is  a  danger  in  regarding  the  ceremony  as 
a  kind  of  superstitious  charm,  securing  salvation 
in  a  mechanical  way,  and  that  it  should  not  be 
administered  until  a  child  has  a  full  conscious- 
ness of  what  is  happening.  That  view  is  based 
upon  a  conscientious  reason,  and  ought  to  be 
respected,  if  sincerely  held.  There  is  much  in 
the  Gospel  about  love  and  helpfulness  and  con- 
ciliation, and  not  much  about  inflexible  adherence 
to  doctrine  or  despotic  intolerance. 

One  thinks  of  the  old  story  about  the  two 
hermits  in  Egypt  who  began  to  be  afraid  that 
they  were  living  too  peaceful  and  harmonious  a 
life  together.  One  of  them  said :  "  Let  us  have  a 
quarrel,  like  people  in  the  world,  so  that  we  can 
learn  how  to  defend  our  faith  courageously.  T 
will  take  one  of  these  stones,  and  set  it  up  and 
say  it  is  mine;  and  you  shall  say  it  is  yours, 
and  then  we  will  have  a  fine  dispute  over  it." 

"Excellent!"  said  the  other.  "That  will  be 
good  for  us  both.  We  are  growing  lazy  and 
indifferent." 

So  the  first  put  up  a  stone  and  said,  "  That 
stone  is  mine ! "  And  the  other  said,  "  I  am  sure 
you  are  very  welcome  to  it."  And  then  after  a 
pause  the  first  said,  "  Well,  I  give  it  to  you,  and 
it  is  yours."  And  the  second  said,  "  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart."  Then  the  first  said,  "But, 
though  it  is  yours,  I  take  it  from  you  and  use 
it  as  my  own."    And  the  second  said,  "  It  is  the 


Peace  357 

greatest  pleasure  T  can  have  to  yield  it  to  you." 
Then  they  both  laughed,  and  gave  up  trying  to 
quarrel  any  more. 

And  now  I  must  go  on  to  the  second  point,  and 
try  to  inquire  what  the  peace  of  God,  which  may 
come  to  bless  the  heart  of  a  man,  can  be.  It 
ob\iously  cannot  be  a  self-righteous  kind  of  com- 
placency, a  self-satisfaction  which  is  so  deep  that 
nothing  can  ruffle  it.  There  is  a  story  of  an  old 
eighteenth-century  bishop  who  held  many  rich 
preferments;  and  when  he  lay  dying,  he  was  seen 
to  be  smiling  to  himself;  his  chaplain  asked  him 
what  gave  him  such  tranquillity,  and  he  said, 
"The  consciousness  of  a  well-spent  life  I"  But 
this  cannot  be  the  peace  of  God  which  a  Christian 
ought  to  have.  It  cannot  be  a  sense  of  having 
found  the  world  a  comfortable  place  and  god- 
liness a  profitable  thing.  It  must  be  something 
deeper  and  purer  than  that,  a  tranquillity  far 
removed  from  any  sense  of  merit,  which  can  be 
disturbed  by  no  misunderstanding  and  troubled 
by  no  suffering  or  loss.  It  must  be  a  humble 
and  penitent  frame  of  mind,  grateful  for  mercies, 
and  with  a  calm  assurance  that  trials  and  troubles 
do  not  come  fortuitously,  but  from  a  Father's 
loving  hand.  Such  a  peace  is  not  desirous  of 
proclaiming  its  own  convictions,  nor  anxious  to 
defend  its  own  consistency;  and  still  less  bent 
either  upon  judging  the  teachings  of  others  or 
enforcing  its  own  happy  conclusions  upon  them. 
It  concerns  itself  not  at  all  with  controversies  op 


358  Along  the  Road 

disputes,  but  only  with  concord  and  sympathy. 
Whatever  happens,  it  cannot  be  right  for  a 
Christian  to  adopt  a  provocative  attitude  about 
his  own  beliefs  and  hopes ;  he  must  hold  to  them, 
but  he  must  not  try  to  enforce  them.  The  only 
thing  he  has  warrant  in  the  Gospel  for  withstand- 
ing is  the  tyrannical  and  Pharisaical  temper!  If 
the  Christian  is  to  turn  his  cheek  to  the  smiter, 
it  cannot  be  intended  that  he  is  presently,  in  the 
cause  of  principle,  to  try  his  hand  at  a  buffet, 
and  hope  that  his  adversary  will  permit  him  to 
make  it  two.  There  is  really  a  great  deal  more 
in  the  Gospel  about  literal  non-resistance  than 
we  find  it  convenient  to  admit.  Can  it  be  that 
by  our  falling  back  upon  more  practical  methods 
the  coming  of  the  kingdom  is  so  long  delayed? 


V 


CONVERSATION 

I  WAS  bicycliug  recently  aloue  in  the  depths  of 
the  country,  and  took  refuge  from  a  tremendous 
thunder-plump  of  rain  in  a  mean  little  public- 
house,  with  a  stone  floor,  and  drearily-painted, 
much-worn  pews  of  wood.  There  were  two  old 
rustic  men  sheltering  at  the  same  time,  who  held 
a  long  conversation,  if  it  can  be  called  a  con- 
versation, where  each  of  the  two  followed  his 
own  line  of  thought,  and  where  the  remarks  of 
the  one  seemed  to  sugp^est  nothing  to  the  other, 
and  not  even  to  constitute  an  interruption  to  the 
train  of  settled  reflection. 

it  was  about  the  weather,  this  duet,  and  I 
cannot  reproduce  it.  One  of  the  two  was  of 
opinion  that  the  water  of  a  thunder-shower  was 
not  as  wholesome  as  the  water  of  ordinary  rain. 
"  There  seems  something  got  into  it  which  ain't 
quite  wholesome,"  he  said.  The  statement  came 
to  an  end  after  a  minute  or  two ;  then  there  was 
a  silence,  and  then  the  first  speaker  began  again 
with  the  same  remark  with  which  he  had  begun 
the  first  strophe.  To  my  surprise  and  amusement, 
the  second  conversation  was  almost  identically  the 
359 


36o  Along  the  Road 

same  as  the  first.  The  same  opinion  was  ex- 
pressed^bj  tjtie  secaD.(l.sp£aker  about  the  unhealthi- 
ness  of  thundei'-raiu,  and  it  was,  as  before,  mutely 
disregarded  by  the  other. 

When  it  was  over,  I  thought  that  I  might 
myself  intervene,  so  I  said :  "  Some  people  say 
that  a  thunder-storm  breaks  up  the  weather." 
They  both  turned  to  me  pleasantly,  and  the  first 
speaker,  after  a  short  pause  of  reflection,  said, 
"  Yes,  they  do  say  it.  It 's  the  weather  they  go 
by."  I  wrestled  in  vain  with  the  bearing  of  the 
remark;  and  i)resently  the  second  speaker  said, 
with  the  air  of  introducing  a  new  element  into 
the  talk,  that  there  seemed  to  be  something  got 
into  the  rain  of  a  thunder-shower  which  was  not 
quite  wholesome.  After  this,  the  sun  came  out, 
the  last  drops  of  the  storm  fell  with  a  resounding 
flick,  and  we  parted  with  cordial  farewells  and 
with  much  mutual  esteem.  As  I  went  away,  I 
heard  the  second  speaker  say  to  the  first,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  conviction,  "  Yes,  it 's  the  weather 
they  go  by." 

A  day  or  two  later  I  was  sitting  in  my  club 
in  London;  the  big  saloon,  with  its  arm-chairs 
and  sofas,  its  paper-bestrewn  tables,  its  stands  of 
books  and  magazines,  was  filling  up  at  tea-time. 
An  old  gentleman  with  a  grey  beard  was  sitting 
near  me,  when  there  drifted  into  his  proximity 
another  old  gentleman  with  a  wig  and  an  eye- 
glass. They  greeted  cordially  and  arranged  to 
have  tea  together.    The  grey-bearded  old  man  was 


Conversation  361 

turning  over  a  paper,  which  he  now  laid  down, 
and  presently  said  to  the  other,  "  Well,  so  we 
have  lost  our  greatest  humourist ! "  The  other 
said,  "Our  greatest  whatf^'  The  first  replied, 
"  Our  greatest  humourist — that  is  to  say,  our 
greatest  humorous  writer."  "  Ah,"  said  the  other, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  had  rapidly  grasped  an 
obscure  thought,  "  I  dare  say  you  are  referring 
to  Gilbert?  "  "  Yes,"  said  the  first,  "  our  greatest 
humourist,  Gilbert."  "  Yes,"  said  the  man  with 
the  wig,  "you  are  about  right  there;  he  was  a 
very  humorous  writer,  and  we  Ve  lost  him,  in- 
deed." "  Now  I  don't  suppose,"  said  the  grey- 
beard, "  that  there  was  ever  such  a  fortunate 
conjunction  of  amusing  poetry  and  straightfor- 
ward music  as  his  comic  operas!  "  "  Why,"  said 
the  man  with  the  wig,  "you  refer  to  Sullivan,  I 
dare  say  ?  "  "  That 's  right  I  "  said  the  grey-beard, 
"  Gilbert  and  Sullivan,  there  was  a  straightfor- 
ward conjunction." 

The  conversation  proceeded  for  a  long  time  on 
these  simple  lines;  when  the  man  with  the  wig 
rose  and  said  that  he  must  be  going,  and  that  it 
had  been  a  great  pleasure  to  have  a  good  talk. 

There  was  something  very  refreshing  to  find 
the  sjiiiH*  pr(»(('ss  Lining  on  all  the  world  over. 
Tlie  jo.vs  of  conversation!  I  found  myself  reflect- 
ing what  a  curious  thing  ordinary  talk  is.  There 
is  no  communication  of  ideas,  no  interchange  of 
sentiments,  no  comparison  of  experiences.  Each 
of  the  performers  in  each  dialogue  had  got  some 


362  Along  the  Road 

thought  of  a  dim  kind  in  his  mind,  which  he 
slowly  translated  into  the  medium  of  speech. 
There  was  no  attempt  to  correct  impressions. 
The  only  difference  between  the  uncultured  and 
the  cultured  conversation  was  this.  The  two 
rustics  had  not  the  time  or  the  energy  even  to 
listen  to  each  other's  contribution.  In  the  club- 
conversation,  the  man  with  the  wig  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  mental  discovery,  of  gauging  exactly  the 
thought  in  the  grey-bearded  man's  mind. 

But  it  wa&..^L_social  refreshment  in  both  cases; 
and  I  perceived  by  degrees  that  cofiversatijpn  is 
only  very  rarely^ n  exchqpge  of  _ tJlQllPJ^j^^ t  ^^^• 
It  is  just  the  establishing  of  a  personal  relation. 
We  are  most  of  us  like  men  who  are  stumbling 
in  a  mist,  with  a  painful  sense  of  isolation.  Sud- 
denly we  encounter  another  human  being  simi- 
larly occupied.  We  draw  near,  we  clasp  hands, 
we  exchange  signals  of  consciousness,  we  are  glad 
to  find  another  creature  of  the  same  breed  as 
ourselves  in  our  neighbourhood ;  and  then  we  part 
and  stumble  into  the  mist  again.  Society  is  after 
all  but  an  organisation  to  remind  ourselves  that 
we  are  not  alone,  that  our  bewilderment  and  our 
sense  of  isolation  are  shared  by  other  like-minded 
beings ! 

Of  course,  it  is  happier  still  if  we  have  any 
ideas  as  to  what  it  is  all  about,  and  can  exchange 
them.  But  the  essential  point  is  still  the  personal 
relation.  It  is  that  which  matters,  even  more 
than  the  ideas.     One  may  love  people  very  much, 


Conversation  363 

and  yet  never  interchange  any  ideas  with  them, 
because  the  two  minds  may  be  on  wholly  different 
planes.  I  watched  a  mother  the  other  day  with 
a  little  boy,  about  whose  health  she  was  in  great 
anxiety,  sitting  on  her  knee.  There  was  a 
closer  bond  between  them  than  there  is  between 
two  intellectual  men-friends!  They  were  utterly 
hai)y)y  in  each  other's  nearness,  with  perfect  trust- 
fulness on  the  one  hand,  and  intense  affection  on 
the  other.  Yet  the  little  boy  had  no  idea  what 
the  mother  was  thinking  about,  and  the  mother 
could  not  even  dimly  guess  at  what  the  little  brain 
was  imagining  or  recollecting.  Yet  how  much 
deeper  and  more  sacred  a  thing  was  that  union 
of  love  than  the  elaborately-made  friendship  of 
two  critical  persons,  lucidly  aware  of  each  other's 
mental  foibles  and  failings! 

All  this  may  be  very  obvious,  no  doubt,  but  it 
is  a  thing  which  we  constantly  forget.  How 
swiftly  we  can  form  a  friendship  with  a  congenial 
nature,  by  glance  and  touch  and  silent  proximity; 
how  far  away  one  often  is  from  one  whose  mental 
processes  one  can  follow  and  admire!  It  is  not 
in  the  intellectual  region  that  our  relations  with 
others  are  formed ;  it  is  in  that  narrow  enclosure 
where  the  soul  walks  alone,  peering  out  through 
the  bars  to  see  what  it  is  that  passes  by.  That 
is  a  thing  which  one  only  learns  as  life  goes  on. 
When  one  was  young,  one  used  to  think  that 
making  friends  was  a  mental  process.  One  had 
to  talk  out  things,  to  get  at  a  friend's  opinions, 


364  Along  the  Road 

to  know  what  he  thought.  As  one  gets  older,  one 
cares  less  about  opinions  and  thoughts,  one  de- 
sires more  and  more  to  know:_what  a  friend  feels, 
and  one  grows  to~~value"  unintelligent  affection 
above  intelligent  sympathy.  Even  if  a  person's 
opinions  conflict  with  one's  own  at  every  point, 
yet  if  he  is  at  ease  with  one,  if  he  cares  to  be 
with  one,  that  is  what  matters.  I  used  to  wonder 
in  the  old  days,  at  the  extraordinary  alliances 
which  I  saw:  A  husband  of  vivid  intellectual 
sympathies  and  a  dull,  homely  wife;,  or  a  bril- 
liant, artistic,  sensitive  woman,  with  a  robust 
and  comfortable  mate.  And  yet  such  misfits  often 
seemed  the  most  contented  combinations.  One 
did  not  see  that  mutual  love  js  often  best  sus- 
tained by  an  admiration^  for  opposite  quaU^^^ 
— that  the  brilliant  husband  could  see  the 
superficiality  of  his  own  flourishes,  and  repose 
gratefully  upon  his  wife's  sense  and  practical 
judgment,  while  the  wife  could  unenvyingly  ad- 
mire a  vividness  which  she  could  not  understand. 
One  forgot  the  necessary  alternations  of  stimulus 
and  restfulness,  one  overlooked  the  meaning  of 
the  whole  affair.  What  matters  most  of  all  in 
life  is  mutual  confidence,  the  sense  of  unity,  not 
of  idea  and  not  even  of  aim,  but  of  regard  and 
hope.  What  makes  many  people  miss  happiness 
in  life — and  this  is  particularly  true  of  intel- 
lectual people — is  that  they  look  too  much  for 
partnership  in  superficial  things,  and  make  the 
mistake  of  thinking  that  life  means  occupation 


Conversation  365 

and  talk.  Life  is  a  much  deeper  and  stronger 
thing  than  that ;  occupation  is  often  nothing  more 
than  the  channel  in  which  it  flows,  while  talk 
is  but  the  breaking  of  bubbles  on  the  surface  of 
the  stream. 

I  do  not  mean  that  I  undervalue  conversation ; 
to  find  anyone  who  will  frankly  set  his  mind 
alongside  of  one's  own,  say  without  affectation 
what  he  thinks,  hear  without  impatience  what  one 
believes,  is  oiie  of  the  greatest  pleasures  in  the 
world.  IJut,  on  the  other  hand,  one  learns  not 
to  despise  the  dull  and  sticky  conversations  which 
one  has  in  many  cases  to  endure,  when  words 
seem  nothing  but  courteous  patches  stuck  over 
gaps  of  silence,  because  one  finds  that,  even  so, 
something  remains;  a  sense  of  having  been  sig- 
nalled to  by  another  pilgrim  on  the  lonely  waste, 
a  sense  of  proximity  triumphantly  carried  off 
from  an  hour  of  boredom.  A  great  many  people 
think  very  vaguely  and  dumbly,  and  are  quite 
unable  to  translate  even  those  vague  currents  of 
emotion  into  intelligible  words.  But  the  point  is 
to  let  those  emotional  currents  mingle  if  possible, 
to  get  the  sense  of  fellowship  and  union.  Some 
of  my  best  friends  are  people  whose  conversation 
at  first  meeting  bored  me;  while  there  are  people, 
whose  talk  always  amuses  and  charms  me,  with 
whom  I  have  never  been  able  to  establish  any 
relation  at  all.  One  must  not  think  lightly  of 
reason,  or  complain  of  its  hardness  and  dryness; 
but  it  is  more  important  by  far  to  keep  one's 


366  Along  the  Road 

emotions  vivid  and  strong,  to  grasp  every  hand 
held  out,  to  answer  every  call,  and  to  see  in 
every  human  being  one  meets,  not  a  probable 
antagonist,  but  a  possible  friend. 


WORK  AND  PLAY 

There  is  an  old  proverb  which  says,  "  If  a  thing 
is  worth  doing,  it  is  worth  doing  well."  That 
is  fairly  obvions;  but  the  usual  connection  in 
which  it  is  quoted  is  that  if  a  thing  is  worth 
doing,  it  is  not  worth  doing  badly;  and  that  I 
humbly  and  heartily  deny.  Used  in  that  sense 
it  becomes  a  brutal  and  stupid  cudgel  in  the 
hands  of  grim  and  tiresome  elderly  people,  who 
are  always  looking  about  for  an  opportunity  to 
interfere  and  scold;  and  because  they  dare  not 
do  it  to  grown-up  persons,  they  use  their  cudgel 
on  the  backs  of  young  people,  who  cannot  or 
probably  will  not  answer  back.  There  was  long 
ago  a  dreary  friend  of  my  family,  a  dry,  creaking 
sort  of  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  made  out 
of  wood,  who  liked  nothing  better,  I  used  to  think, 
than  spoiling  our  fun.  He  was  what  the  old 
books  called  a  "  killjoy."  I  remember  once  that 
he  found  me  playing  the  piano  all  by  myself,  and 
doing  it  very  badly.  He  listened  a  little,  and 
then  said  that  he  did  not  think  it  was  worth 
playing  the  piano  unless  one  could  do  it  better 
than  that.     I  might  have  replied  that  the  only 

367 


368  Along  the  Road 

way  to  do  it  better  was  to  go  on  doing  it  until 
one  improved;  but  I  merely  closed  the  piano  and 
fled  from  him.  I  dp  not  know  that  he  meant  it 
unkindly;  I  should  think  he  had  a  vague  idea 
of  exhorting  me  to  moral  effort.  Indeed,  I  had 
myself  a  lesson  the  other  day,  eao  ore  infantium, 
that  one  had  better  not  indulge  in  criticisms.  A 
little  girl  showed  me  some  poems  she  had  written ; 
I  praised  them  duly,  and  then  pointed  out  a  line 
which  was  not  grammatical,  and  which  could  be 
altered  by  the  substitution  of  a  single  word.  She 
took  it  from  my  hand  and  looked  at  it;  then 
she  said  in  a  nonchalant  way,  "  I  don't  think  I 
shall  alter  it."  Her  mother,  who  was  present, 
said,  "  Oh,  but  if  you  are  shown  that  anything 
is  wrong,  it  is  much  better  to  change  it."  "  No," 
said  the  young  poetess,  "  after  all,  it  is  my  poem !  " 

Of  course,  one  must  not  get  into  the  way  of 
doing  everything  in  a  slapdash  amateur  fashion. 
One  ought  to  have  two  or  three  things — one's 
work  in  the  world,  for  instance,  which  one  does 
well.  But  when  it  comes  to  filling  one's  leisure, 
there  is  no  reason  why  one  should  not  amuse 
oneself  by  doing  a  thing  badly,  if  one  cannot  do 
it  better.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  hobby, 
and  a  variety  of  hobbies. 

I  myself  strum  infamously  on  a  piano,  and 
draw  in  pen  and  ink  with  more  zeal  than  accom- 
plishment. I  have  no  illusions  as  to  the  merit 
of  these  performances,  and  at  the  age  of  fifty 
there  is  not  the  slightest  hope  of  improvement; 


Work  and  Play  369 

but  I  cannot  see  for  the  life  of  me  why  I  should 
not  continue  to  play  and  draw  while  it  amuses 
me.  One  cannot  always  be  writing  and  reading, 
and  it  is  important  that  one  should  learn  to 
waste  a  little  time  pleasantly  to  oneself,  even  if 
one's  amusements  give  no  pleasure  to  others.  It 
is  very  important,  as  one  gets  older,  not  to  lose 
the  habit  of  playing;  one  cannot  romp  about  and 
(limb  trees  and  play  games  which  involve  jump- 
ing: but  one  can  always  amuse  oneself,  and  it 
need  not  be  in  a  rational  manner.  To  want  to 
play  shows  a  wholesome  appetite  and  zest  for 
life;  and  if  possible  one  should  encourage  one- 
self in  early  life  to  make  things.  There  is  an 
elderly  lady  of  my  acquaintance  who  takes  an 
immense  and  unflagging  interest  in  life.  She  has 
a  room  which  she  calls  her  Bindery,  in  which  she 
is  always  binding  volumes.  They  are  dreadfully 
badly  done  as  a  rule.  One  can't  open  one  of  her 
masterpieces  without  breaking  the  back;  and 
when  one  has  done  so,  several  quires  of  paper 
fall  out.  The  lettering  is  all  wrong,  and  there 
is  seldom  quite  room  on  the  back  for  the  title. 
She  is  wholly  aware  of  the  absurd  results  which 
she  produces,  and  is  more  amused  by  them  than 
anyone  else;  but  she  gets  a  great  deal  of  delight 
out  of  the  pursuit,  and  says  that  the  occupation 
is  the  real  background  of  her  life. 

To  desire  to  make  something  is  a  perfectly 
natural  human  instinct,  and  I  have  always  held 
that  all  children  ought  to  be  taught  a  handicraft. 

»4 


370  Along  the  Road 

It  would  be  well  if  this  could  be  continued  at 
school,  but  it  is  not  very  easy  to  organise,  espe- 
cially when  we  make  it  a  rule — not  a  wholly  wise 
rule — that  all  boys  should  play  games,  whether 
they  can  do  it  or  not.  I  do  not  think  that  all 
games  can  be  omitted  even  for  boys  who  have  no 
aptitude  for  them ;  one  must  provide  exercise  and 
open  air  for  all;  but  when  it  comes  to  a  game 
like  cricket,  which  is  essentially  an  idle  game  for 
all  but  boys  who  can  bowl  and  bat,  and  wastes 
time  more  than  any  other  game,  it  does  seem  to 
me  rather  absurd  that  a  boy  who  has,  say,  a  taste 
for  carpentering  should  not  be  allowed  to  indulge 
his  taste,  and  give  up  cricket  when  it  becomes 
clear  that  he  cannot  under  any  circumstances 
become  proficient  at  it. 

We  are  a  curiously  conventional  nation  in 
many  respects.  It  is  taken  for  granted  by  many 
people  that  games  are  not  a  waste  of  time,  how- 
ever ill  you  play  them,  and  that  reading  is  not 
a  waste  of  time  however  badly  and  unintelligently 
you  may  read.  I  was  in  the  company  the  other 
day  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  when  a  discussion 
was  going  on  as  to  the  advisability  of  opening 
a  museum  on  Sundays.  My  old  friend  said 
pleasantly  that  he  did  not  think  it  should  be 
opened.  "  To  speak  frankly,"  he  added,  "  I  do 
not  think  it  is  good  for  people  to  look  at  things; 
it  is  a  waste  of  time ;  they  get  on  very  well  with- 
out it,  and  it  only  unsettles  their  minds."  "  But 
that  is  an  argument,"  I  said,  "  not  against  open- 


Work  and  Play  371 

ing  this  miiseiim  on  Sundays,  but  in  favour  of 
the  immediate  abolition  of  all  museums."  "  No/' 
he  said,  "  I  think  that  professed  students  ought 
to  go  to  museums,  but  no  one  else — it  is  mere 
dilettante  rubbish."  At  which  point  I  meekl}' 
desisted  from  argument,  because  it  is  no  good 
arguing  with  people  who  have  private  decalogues 
of  their  own. 

My  own  theory  of  life  is  so  wholly  different, 
that  I  find  it  hard  to  say  how  much  I  disagree. 
1  believe  that  everyone  ought  to  have  work  to 
do,  and  ought  to  enjoy  work;  but  I  think  that 
many  of  us  do  too  much  work,  and  have  not 
nearly  enough  leisure.  The  ditliculty  of  chang- 
ing all  that  is  because  we  have  developed  a  false 
habit  of  occupation.  We  take  it  for  granted  that 
if  a  person  is  occupied  in  something  definite,  he 
is  well  employed.  I  am  a  busy  man  myself,  and 
have  many  engagements.  I  reflect  with  pain 
sometimes  what  an  extraordinary  amount  of  good 
time  is  ill  consumed  in  things  like  committees, 
in  which  details  of  a  wholly  unimportant  kind 
are  discussed  at  enormous  length,  just  because 
they  are  the  only  part  of  the  business  that  most 
of  those  present  understand.  But  the  result  is 
that  for  many  of  us  life  slips  away  without 
living.  We  know  little  of  the  wonderful  world 
around  us;  the  wholesome  sights  of  nature 
the  endless  ingenuities  and  activities  of  men, 
frankly,  do  not  interest  us.  At  Cambridge,  for 
instance,  I  have  sometimes  been  almost  appalled 


372  Along  the  Road 

by  the  way  in  which  undergraduates  talk  of  the 
absolute  impossibility  of  taking  a  walk.  They 
walk,  talk,  eat,  play  a  game,  and  the  day  is 
full ;  but  a  walk  means  nothing  to  see  and  nothing 
to  do. 

And  so  I  come  back  to  my  original  proposition, 
which  amounts  to  this :  that  we  ought  to  organise 
leisure  more  liberally  and  more  sensibly.  We 
have  a  dreary  belief  that  it  is  everyone's  duty 
to  get  on,  to  make  money,  to  win  consideration, 
to  be  respected.  I  am  not  sure  that  these  am- 
bitions are  not  absolutely  wrong;  a  man  ought 
to  have  work  and  to  enjoy  it,  and  after  that  he 
ought  to  desire  to  be  innocently  happy,  and  to 
be  loved;  consideration  and  respect  generally 
mean  that  a  man  is  thought  to  know  how  to 
secure  and  how  to  retain  a  larger  share  of  the 
conveniences  of  life  than  other  people,  and  to  be 
in  no  hurry  to  part  with  them. 

And  thus  the  old  proverb  seems  to  me  to  be 
one  of  those  dull  and  selfish  maxims  which  repre- 
sent the  worst  side  of  the  English  character- 
its  want  of  originality  and  lightness  and  joy  and 
kindly  intercourse.  It  is  a  commercial  maxim 
through  and  through.  A  proverb  is  generally  said 
to  be  the  wisdom  of  many  and  the  wit  of  one; 
but  in  this  case  it  seems  to  me  to  be  little  more 
than  the  stupidity  of  many  and  the  cynicism  of 
one. 


LIVELINESS 

I  WAS  talking  to  a  friend  the  other  day,  and  said 
in  tlie  course  of  the  talk  that  on  the  whole  the 
most  useful  people  I  knew  were  the  people  who  had 
chosen  the  work  which  amused  them  most.  My 
friend  took  exception  to  this,  and  said  that  it 
was  rather  a  light-minded  and  jaunty  view  of 
life,  and  that  it  left  out  of  sight  great  purposes 
and  serious  etfort  and  devoted  self-sacrifice.  But 
I  stuck  to  my  point.  I  had  not  said  that  these 
lives  were  the  finest  and  the  most  heroic,  but 
that  they  were  on  the  whole  the  most  useful.  I 
added  that  I  believed  that  he  agreed  with  me  in 
reality,  but  that  he  probably  attached  a  different 
sense  to  the  word  amusement.  The  people  I 
meant  were  those  who  did  their  work  with  a 
kind  of  radiant  enjoyment  and  gaiety,  because 
they  liked  the  idea  of  it  and  the  detail  of  it; 
and  that  the  men  who  worked  in  that  spirit  pro- 
duced a  very  infectious  result  on  the  people  who 
worked  with  and  under  them;  imported  a  sort 
of  zest  and  gusto  into  the  whole  business,  which 
carried  everything  before  it,  overcame  difficulties, 
made  light  of  disagreeable  incidents,  and  faced 
373 


374  Along  the  Road 

anxieties  with  a  kind  of  cheerful  courage  which 
deprived  cares  of  half  their  terror.  I  said  that 
such  people  reminded  me  of  that  pleasant  text 
(which,  bj  the  way,  I  have  never  induced  any  of 
my  clerical  friends  to  preach  upon,  though  I 
have  often  suggested  it),  "And  David  danced 
before  the  Lord  with  all  his  might."  It  is  true 
that  Michal  despised  David  for  dancing  so 
eagerly;  but  Michal  was  no  doubt  one  of  those 
intensely  conventional  people  who  value  propriety 
above  everything;  and  David  was  certainly  right. 
Such  a  temper  as  this  seems  to  me  to  be  not 
in  the  least  inconsistent  with  effort  and  serious- 
ness and  unselfishness;  and  what  I  like  about  it 
most  is  that  it  does  not  cloud  life,  as  undue 
seriousness  is  apt  to  do,  with  a  sort  of  heavy 
solemnity.  I  value  solemnity  in  its  place;  but 
it  ought  to  come  rarely  and  impressively,  on 
great  occasions  and  at  important  moments.  It 
is  of  no  use  to  pretend  that  life  is  not  a  serious 
business;  if  one  goes  to  work  grinning  and  gig- 
gling, one  is  ax>t  to  get  a  little  nip  from  circum- 
stances which  remind  one  that  levity  is  not  al- 
ways appropriate.  But  I  think  that,  for  all  that, 
life  ought  to  be  lived  in  a  gay  temper,  as  far  as 
possible.  Life  is  full  of  interesting,  exciting,  and 
amusing  things,  and  one  is  meant  to  enjoy  them 
heartily.  People,  their  ways,  their  sayings,  and 
their  opinions,  are  highly  entertaining.  It  is 
pleasant  to  know  beforehand  exactly  what  line 
a  man  is  sure,  to  take,  what  familiar  and  un- 


Liveliness  375 

necessary  caution  he  is  going  to  display,  what 
threadbare  phrases  and  arguments  he  is  going 
to  employ;  it  is  as  satisfactory  as  the  striking 
of  a  clock  at  the  appointed  hour;  and  not  less 
entertaining  are  the  wholly  unexpected  things 
which  people  do  and  say,  entirely  at  variance 
with  all  their  principles  and  opinions.  To  ap- 
prehend all  this  and  to  enjoy  it  is  the  essence 
of  humour;  and  it  is  a  perpetual  refreshment  to 
])erceive  it  and  relish  it. 

But  if  a  man,  on  the  other  hand,  takes  up  his 
work  with  a  pompous  sense  of  rectitude,  with  a 
belief  that  he  is  bound  to  be  always  correcting 
and  improving  and  uplifting  people,  what  a 
dreary  business  it  often  is!  I  do  not  know  any- 
thing which  more  takes  the  wind  out  of  one's 
sails,  which  brings  such  a  sense  of  unnatural 
constraint  with  it,  as  being  much  with  people 
who  are  always  disapproving.  I  am  not  advo- 
cating a  cynical  and  flippant  treatment  of  every- 
thing, and  still  less  an  absence  of  decent  and 
seemly  reticence  in  talk.  Nor  do  I  at  all  mean 
that  everything  should  be  regarded  as  a  joke;  I 
do  not  know  anything  more  trying,  or,  indeed, 
more  de])ressing,  tlian  incessant  trifling  with 
everything.  But  what  I  value  is  a  light  touch, 
a  sort  of  darting  quality,  like  sun  and  breeze,  a 
changeful  mood,  amused  and  interested  and  seri- 
ous by  turns,  responsive  and  sympathetic.  Of 
course,  everyone  cannot  give  this :  it  is  a  great  and 
unusual  charm.     But  everyone  can  resolve  that, 


Z^(i  Along  the  Road 

whatever  happens,  they  will  not  blight  and  inter- 
rupt the  movement  of  others'  minds,  will  not  bore 
others  with  their  own  preoccupations,  or  smear 
their  own  worries  into  the  gaps  of  every  talk. 

I  do  not  think  that  one's  own  work  is  a  thing 
to  dwell  upon  in  the  company  of  others;  but  the 
people  who  do  their  work  in  a  light  and  inter- 
ested way  have  no  temptation  to  do  that.  They 
enjoy  their  work,  and  when  it  is  done  they  are 
pleasantly  weary  of  it,  and  want  to  go  on  to 
something  else.  I  used  to  think  that  Roddie,  the 
beloved  collie  of  whom  I  have  written,  and  whose 
loss  I  still  mourn,  was  an  ideal  example  of  how 
to  take  life.  One  would  not  have  thought  that 
an  afternoon  walk  was  such  a  tremendous  affair. 
But  Eoddie  rushed  off  with  a  peal  of  joyful  barks, 
danced  round  one,  was  intensely  interested,  on 
coming  out  of  the  drive,  to  see  if  we  would  turn 
to  the  left  or  the  right.  Whichever  way  one 
turned,  there  came  another  loud  peal  of  barks, 
as  though  to  say,  "  Right  again !  The  very  turn 
I  would  have  chosen."  Then  he  settled  down  to 
his  own  amusements,  peeping  into  hedgerows, 
looking  through  gates,  discovering  a  hundred 
exciting  scents  everywhere;  and  then  the  walk 
over,  when  one  turned  into  the  gate,  there  came 
another  set  of  jubilant  barks,  as  though  to  say, 
"  Why,  we  have  got  back  liome  after  all !  You 
really  are  the  cleverest  of  guides."  And  then 
came  a  delicious  nap,  beginning  instantly,  in  his 
own  corner,  under  the  card-table. 


Liveliness  377 

Of  course,  we  cannot  all  hope  to  have  the 
supreme  tact  and  sympathy  of  a  dog.  Clever 
and  useful  and  important  as  we  are,  that  is  be- 
yond our  powers  I  But  we  can  get  nearer  to  this 
sort  of  light-heartedness  by  practice,  even  by 
admiring  it  and  desiring  it. 

Hut  my  serious-minded  friend  would  have  none 
of  this;  he  said,  not  very  profoundly,  that  we 
were  bound  to  spend  and  be  spent  for  others. 
Of  course  we  are!  Who  can  avoid  it?  But  we 
need  not  spend  ourselves  drearily  and  self-con- 
sciously; and  the  people  who  do  so  because  they 
like  doing  it,  spontaneously,  and  because  they  are 
interested  in  others,  are  far  more  effective — at 
least  in  my  exi)erience — than  the  people  who  do 
it  from  a  strict  sense  of  duty  and  with  a  sigh. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  there  is  not  a  very 
fine  and  silent  kind  of  self-sacrifice,  which  people 
can  make  and  do  make.  But  when  I  think  of 
the  great  Christian  workers  whom  I  have  known 
— my  father,  for  instance.  Bishop  Lightfoot, 
Bishop  Westcott — they  worked  because  they  en- 
joyed their  work  with  a  tremendous  zest,  because 
it  seemed  to  them  the  most  delightful  and  inter- 
esting work  in  the  world,  and  from  the  purest 
and  simplest  pleasure  in  doing  a  job  well.  And 
then,  again,  I  think  of  men  like  Charles  Kings- 
ley  and  Bishop  Wilkinson — men  of  deep  sorrows 
and  sharp  anxieties — whose  work  lay  more  in 
personal  and  pastoral  regions.  These  men  did 
not  work  because  they  felt  bound  to  do  so,  but 


37^  Along  the  Road 

because  they  were  intensely  and  incessantly  inter- 
ested in  the  problems  of  other  people,  and  longed 
to  give  them  some  of  the  joyful  peace  which  they 
themselves  enjoyed.  And  thus  I  come  back  to 
what  I  said  at  first,  that  the  most  useful  people, 
the  people  who  make  most  difference  to  others, 
are  not  the  people  who  do  their  work  on  a  theory 
and  for  sound  reasons,  but  the  people  who  act 
on  a  sort  of  generous  instinct,  and  who  find  the 
employment  of  their  force  and  energy  delightful, 
and,  in  the  best  and  truest  sense,  amusing. 

Of  course,  one  knows  of  work  reluctantly  un- 
dertaken and  faithfully  fulfilled;  and  that  is  a 
splendid  thing  too.  "  To  be  afraid  of  a  thing  and 
yet  to  do  it,  is  what  makes  the  prettiest  kind  of 
man  " — as  the  brisk  Alan  Breck  said  to  David 
Balfour.  But  Alan  was  all  on  the  side  of  the 
spirited  life.  He  liked  danger,  because  it  gave 
him  a  sense  of  excitement,  and  brought  his  powers 
of  inventiveness  into  use.  And  what  I  am  really 
pleading  for  is  that  people  should  not  allow  their 
lives  to  become  dull.  It  is  dulness  which  takes 
the  edge  off  things,  and  discourages  the  young 
aspirant.  We  cannot  all  keep  our  animal  spirits 
up,  and  we  do  not  deceive  others  by  per- 
petually making  bad  jokes ;  but  we  can  be  on  the 
look-out  for  what  other  people  are  thinking  and 
feeling;  we  can  applaud  if  we  cannot  perform, 
and  smile  if  we  cannot  be  convulsed  with 
laughter.  I  have  a  delightful  friend  at  Cam- 
bridge, whose  interest  in  life  is  wholly  unabated, 


Liveliness  379 

in  spite  of  his  snowy  locks.  I  sat  next  him  in 
Hall  not  long  ago,  at  his  own  College.  I  men- 
tioned a  subject  which  was  going  to  be  discussed 
that  evening  at  a  meeting  I  was  to  attend. 
"  Ah !  "  he  said,  "  that 's  very  interesting.  Now 
I  should  like  to  take  a  line  of  my  own ! "  He 
began  to  indicate  one  or  two  arguments.  "  Ha !  '* 
he  suddenly  cried,  "  this  is  really  very  good,  much 
to  the  point.  I  must  just  jot  this  down!"  He 
seized  a  menu  and  got  out  a  pencil,  and  con- 
tinued to  take  notes  of  his  own  conversation; 
and  at  the  end  he  gave  me  a  little  smile.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  have  talked  too  much!  I  often  do;  but 
I  '11  just  take  this  card  away  with  me," — he 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket  as  he  spoke, — "  I  dare 
say  it  will  turn  out  useful;  you  see,  I  am 
interested  in  most  things ! " 


PRIDE 

I  HEARD  a  sermon  the  other  day,  which  was  both 
beautiful  and  forcible,  on  the  subject  of  pride. 
The  preacher  said  that  pride  was  a  kind  of  dis- 
loyalty to  God,  and  that  pride  was  the  sin  of 
the  man  who  would  not  ride  with  the  troop,  or 
be  one  of  the  rank  and  file,  but  would  take  his 
own  solitary  and  wilful  way;  and  that  it  was 
in  a  treasured  and  complacent  solitariness  that 
pride  consisted.  He  said  it  was  as  though  the 
mill-stream  were  too  dignified  to  go  through  the 
mill,  and  that  we  must  be  prepared  to  go  through 
the  mill,  and  do  the  useful,  obvious  work.  I 
think  that  was  all  true,  and  that  a  sort  of  soli- 
tariness, a  desiring  to  do  things  in  one's  own  way, 
an  incapacity  of  Avorking  with  other  people,  is 
all  a  part  of  pride.  I  remember  a  man  who  had 
been  for  a  time  in  a  Benedictine  house  as  a  novice 
telling  me  his  reasons  for  not  continuing  there. 
He  said  with  a  smile,  "  I  soon  found  out  that 
the  only  monastery  of  which  I  could  be  a  member, 
was  a  monastery  of  which  I  was  also  abbot  I '' 
That  was  a  frank  confession  of  pride.  But  I 
think  that  there  is  a  great  deal  more  in  pride 
380 


Pride  381 

than  that,  and  that  it  would  not  have  been  at 
the  head  of  all  the  deadly  sins  if  it  were  merely 
the  sin  of  wilfulness  or  disobedience  or  self-con- 
fidence. If  we  look  at  the  other  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, it  surely  cannot  be  that  God  demands  that 
all  work  should  be  done  in  a  timid,  half-hearted, 
uncertain  spirit;  that  we  should  collapse  in  the 
presence  of  difficulties  and  disfavour;  that  we 
should  let  evil  and  meanness  and  selfishness  go 
unresisted  for  fear  of  taking  a  line  of  our  own, 
or  of  being  thought  to  be  superior. 

And,  again,  pride  is  not  the  same  as  com- 
placency. I  have  known  men  who  were  very 
humble  about  themselves,  very  conscious  of  their 
failures,  and  yet  very  proud  both  in  upholding 
their  own  ideal  and  contemning  the  ideals  of 
other  people.  And  what  increases  the  difficulty 
is  that  pride  is  almost  the  only  sin  which  can 
be  coupled  with  words  of  praise.  We  can  speak 
of  proj)er  pride  and  noble  pride — we  cannot  speak 
of  proper  envy  or  noble  covetousness.  And,  of 
course,  the  reason  why  it  is  so  deadly  a  fault  is 
because  it  is  so  subtle,  so  hard  to  detect,  so  easy, 
not  only  to  overlook  in  oneself,  but  even  to  ad- 
mire. If  a  man  says  of  another  that  he  is  too 
proud  to  do  anything  mean  or  underhand,  he 
intends  to  praise  him,  and  a  man  might  well  be 
proud  of  a  pride  which  prevented  his  joining 
in  something  petty  or  deceitful ;  a  kind  of  pride 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  feeling  noblesse  oblige,  A 
man  who  was  too  proud  to  confess  poverty,  or  to 


382  Along  the  Road 

deplore  his  own  failures,  would  not  necessarily 
be  a  sinner. 

We  should  all  agree  that  a  man  who  was 
patently  and  obviously  proud  of  his  birth  or  of 
his  wealth  was  on  the  wrong  tack.  But  a  man 
might  be  proud  of  his  school  or  his  regiment  or 
his  profession  or  his  children,  and  be  only  the 
better  for  it.  It  is  very  difficult  to  disentangle 
the  truth  about  such  kinds  of  pride,  and  to  see 
why  one  is  wrong  and  the  other  is  right.  T 
suppose  that  it  really  depends  upon  the  personal 
attitude.  I  mean  that  if  a  man  is  conscious,  say, 
that  his  regiment  is  a  good  one,  that  the  tone 
is  keen,  sound,  friendly,  gallant,  and  duty-loving, 
so  that  he  is  thankful  to  be  a  member  of  it,  and 
anxious  to  do  all  he  can  to  contribute  to  its  wel- 
fare, it  is  a  wholesome  pride.  Whereas  if  he  is 
proud  only  that  it  is  a  smart,  rich,  well-bred, 
dashing  regiment,  envied  by  vulgar  people,  and 
fashionable,  it  is  the  wrong  sort  of  pride,  because 
he  looks  upon  these  qualities  as  somehow  in- 
creasing his  own  reputation,  and  claims  as  credit- 
able what  are  only  the  gifts  of  fortune.  Pride 
is,  in  fact,  a  hard  and  confident  belief  in  oneself, 
which  leads  one  to  take  success  as  a  sort  of 
natural  right,  and  further  makes  one  despise  and 
judge  hardly  the  performances  and  aims  of  other 
people. 

And  thus  it  is  a  quality  which  stands  in  the 
way  of  progress  and  peace,  because  it  leads  men 
to  be  unwilling  to  compromise,  or  to  be  con- 


Pride  383 

siderate,  or  to  do  anything  except  on  their  own 
terms. 

But,  as  I  said,  the  danger  of  it  is  that  it  is 
so  terribly  hard  to  detect  in  oneself,  because  it 
masquerades  as  an  angel  of  light.  A  man  may 
learn  to  give  up  much  for  the  sake  of  duty  or 
honour,  to  make  allowances  for  other  people,  to 
use  them  as  far  as  he  can,  to  admit  good- 
fa  umou  redly  enough  their  good  points,  and  yet 
he  may  have  a  serene  confidence  that  after  all 
his  way  is  the  best,  and  that  it  is  only  a  want 
of  perception  and  reason  and  sense  that  makes 
others  fail  to  agree  with  him.  I  have  known 
frank,  friendly,  good-natured,  effective  people, 
with  whom  one  could  never  yet  feel  on  an  equal- 
ity. They  were  patient  and  kindly  and  reason- 
able enough,  and  yet  one  felt  all  the  time  that 
there  was  an  inner  stubbornness  about  them,  and 
that  for  all  their  kindness  they  were  deliberately 
judging  one  for  being  wrong-headed  and  weak- 
minded  and  ineffective  and  sentimental.  But  the 
difficulty  is  this :  suppose  one  perceives  or  believes 
another  man  to  be  mean  or  vulgar  or  unjust  or 
unscrupulous,  is  one  bound  to  try  to  persuade 
oneself  that  he  is  the  opposite,  or  to  assert  it? 
It  seems  to  me  as  absurd  as  if  one  was  bound  to 
try  to  think  ugly  people  beautiful  or  fat  people 
slim.  And  may  one  not  be  thankful  or  grateful 
if  one  is  not  ugly  or  fat?  Is  it  pride  to  recog- 
nise such  advantages  as  one  has,  or  to  be  glad 
that  one  has  them?     The  answer  is  that  one  can- 


384  Along  the  Road 

not,  if  one  has  perceptions  at  all,  be  blind  to 
other  people's  faults  and  disadvantages.  To  pre- 
tend it  would  be  to  be  deliberately  hypocritical. 
The  mischief  begins  when  self-comparison  begins, 
and  when  one  thinks  of  other  people's  failings 
merely  to  accentuate  the  comfortable  sense  of 
one's  own  virtues;  because  the  natural  sequel  is 
that  one  becomes  blind  to  one's  own  faults. 
There  is  no  need  whatever  to  be  for  ever  morbidly 
dwelling  upon  and  exaggerating  one's  own  faults 
— that  often  ends  in  a  kind  of  complacent  hu- 
mility which  is  the  most  dangerous  disguise  of 
pride.  But  one  must  resolutely  perceive  and 
know  that  one's  own  way  of  going  to  work  is 
not  necessarily  the  best.  Tt  may  be  the  best  way 
or  the  only  way  for  oneself,  and  one  has  a  perfect 
right,  indeed  a  duty,  to  do  the  best  work  one 
can  under  the  best  conditions  one  can  secure. 
But  if  one  sees  other  influences  more  potent,  other 
people  doing  more  good  in  their  way,  other  people 
receiving  good  from  methods  which  one  does  not 
like  or  from  people  whom  one  does  not  admire, 
one  must  not  try  to  interfere  with  it  or  to  be 
jealous  of  it  or  to  belittle  it,  but  to  be  sincerely 
thankful  that,  by  whatever  means,  the  thing  is 
done.  Take  the  case  of  a  writer :  supposing  that 
he  sees  that  another  writer,  whom  he  may  think 
silly  or  vulgar  or  cheap  or  melodramatic,  is  better 
liked,  more  read,  more  attended  to  than  himself, 
he  must  be  glad  that  it  is  so;  he  must  not  try 
to  cast  cold  water  upon  the  other's  work  or  to 


Pride  385 

(•;i11  it  inferior  or  twaddling.  He  need  not  desert 
liis  own  way  of  work,  but  he  must  be  content  to 
recognise  that  the  other  is  doing  his  work  in  the 
best  way  that  he  can,  and  that  his  admirers  ad- 
mire him  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons;  if  he 
is  a  clergyman  or  a  schoolmaster,  and  sees  other 
clergy  and  teachers  more  effective  on  different 
lines,  he  must  not  sneer  and  shrug  his  shoulders, 
and  say  that  they  sacrifice  truth  to  impressive- 
ness  and  strictness  to  popularity.  He  must  not 
be  above  taking  hints  from  them,  but  he  must  be 
glad  that  somehow  or  other  the  right  kind  of 
effect  is  being  produced.  Pride  comes  in  if  one 
believes  one's  own  way  to  be  the  only  way  or 
the  best  way,  because  the  moment  one  feels  that, 
one  begins  to  measure  all  natures  by  one's  own, 
and  to  feel  not  that  man  is  made  after  the  likeness 
of  God,  but  that  God  must  somehow  or  other 
resemble  oneself,  and  be  guiding  the  world  on 
the  lines  of  which  one  approves. 

The  reason  why  pride  is  so  deadly  is  because 
it  makes  one  incapable  of  learning  or  of  perceiv- 
ing one's  failures  and  shortcomings.  One  trans- 
lates a  failure  of  one's  own  into  the  stupidity  or 
the  perverseness  of  other  people,  and  instead  of 
taking  a  misfortune  or  a  calamity  as  showing  one 
frankly  and  plainly  that  one  has  been  stupid  or 
lazy  or  careless,  one  takes  it  with  a  kind  of 
patient  solemnity,  as  intended  to  minister  to  one's 
own  sense  of  ineffable  importance.  One  thinks  of 
it  as  the  dent  of  the  graver  upon  the  gem,  when 

2S 


386  Along  the  Road 

it  is  often  no  more  than  the  throwing  of  the 
cracked  potsherd  upon  the  rubbish  heap. 

Experience  is  for  many  of  us  a  process  of 
emptying,  of  bringing  us  to  our  senses,  of  show- 
ing us  that  there  is  but  little  we  are  permitted 
to  do.  We  start  gay  and  confident,  with  a  strong 
sense  of  our  good  intentions,  our  refinement,  our 
perceptiveness,  our  uncommonness,  and  we  have 
got  to  learn,  most  of  us,  that  it  does  not  count 
for  so  much  after  all;  that  we  cannot  hope  to 
have  a  great  effect  upon  the  world,  but  that  we 
must  be  thankful  to  be  shown  our  place,  and  be 
grateful  for  our  little  bit  of  work.  We  are  not 
meant  to  be  hopeless  and  despondent  about  our- 
selves, to  grovel  abjectly  in  a  sense  of  feebleness, 
to  welter  in  ineffectiveness,  of  course.  But  we 
are  meant  to  know  that  even  if  we  are  inside  the 
wicket-gate,  we  are  yet  a  very  long  way  from  the 
celestial  city,  and  that  we  are  better  occupied  in 
minding  the  road,  and  facing  the  goblins,  than 
in  drawing  imaginary  elevations  of  the  King's 
palace,  in  arranging  who  will  enter  and  why,  in 
anticipating  our  own  triumph  and  the  blowing 
of  the  heavenly  trumpets.  It  is  often  when  a 
man  least  expects  it  that  he  finds  his  feet  are 
on  the  steps  of  jacinth,  and  when  he  is  most 
aware  of  his  own  failure  to  do  what  he  might 
have  done,  most  overwhelmed  by  the  murmurs  of 
regret  and  disappointment,  that  the  music  of  the 
melodious  notes  breaks  serenely  on  the  misty  air. 


ALLEGORIES 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  pleasure  felt  by 
ordinary  |)eoi)le  in  parables  and  allegories  is  a 
very  general  one,  and  has  its  roots  far  down  in 
human  nature.  In  its  simplest  form  it  is  the 
same  pleasure  which  a  child  has,  say,  in  a 
wooden  figure  of  a  cow  or  horse,  which  is  not 
only  a  toy,  but  a  box,  and  can  open  and  have 
things  kept  inside  it.  A  parable  is  just  like  that: 
it  is  a  pretty  thing  in  itself,  but  it  has  a  use 
besides,  and  real  things  can  be  laid  away  there. 
It  is  a  mental  pleasure  of  a  simple  kind ;  one  has 
the  story  first  and  then  one  has  the  pleasure  of 
fitting  it  to  real  events  and  facts,  and  of  per- 
ceiving how  it  corresponds.  It  is  the  same  thing 
that  makes  a  savage  tell  stories  about  the  sun 
and  moon  and  stars,  the  husband  and  wife  and 
their  inconveniently  large  family;  and  it  may  be 
noted  how  constantly  little  children,  who  draw  a 
picture  of  a  scene,  tend  to  put  a  human  face  to 
the  sun,  who  comes  peeping  over  the  edge  of  the 
world;  and  just  in  the  same  way  the  figures  of 
beasts,  and  the  curves  and  lines  of  human  furni- 
ture and  human  ornaments  were  very  anciently 
387 


388  Along  the  Road 

attached  to  the  constellations.  It  is  the  joy  of 
detecting  resemblances  which  underlies  it  all ;  one 
likes  to  see  that  a  pollarded  beech-tree  is  like  a 
kind  of  man  holding  up  a  bunch  of  strange  horns 
on  his  head,  with  terrifying,  unwinking  eyes,  and 
a  great  mouth  prepared  for  shouting.  For  how 
many  years  back  have  even  I,  who  am  old  enough 
to  know  better,  been  pleased  to  perceive  that  the 
overlapping  of  two  curtains  above  a  red  blind,  in 
a  certain  house  where  I  often  stay,  makes,  in 
combination  with  the  curtain-rings,  a  sort  of  red- 
bladed  sword  with  a  curious  twisted  hilt!  An- 
other odder  thing  still  is  that  in  the  depths  of 
the  mind  the  thing  is  not  only  like  a  sword;  it 
is  a  sword,  and  there 's  an  end  of  it. 

And  then  after  those  first  pleasures  of  resem- 
blance, one  gets  a  little  further  on,  and  begins 
to  see  deeper  still ;  and  things  become  likenesses, 
not  of  other  things,  but  of  mental  ideas.  The 
ivy  that  grows  so  fast  and  stretches  out  such  soft 
green  innocent  tendrils  across  the  window-pane 
becomes  like  a  fault  which  grows  pleasantly  upon 
a  man,  and  yet  will  darken  all  his  life  if  it  has 
its  way;  the  daisy  with  its  open,  homely  little 
face  looking  up  out  of  the  grass,  is  the  simple 
innocence  that  takes  things  as  they  come,  and  is 
quietly  happy  in  a  comfortable  manner,  whatever 
is  going  on. 

And  then  we  come  to  see  that  most  things, 
indeed,  that  surround  us  are,  in  a  very  deep  and 
wonderful  fashion,  types  and  symbols  of  what  we 


Allegories  389 

re  and  of  what  we  either  may  become,  if  we 
lake  good  heed,  or  of  what  we  may  fail  to  be- 
come, if  we  go  on  our  careless  way,  learning 
nothing  from  what  happens  to  us  except  how  to 
be  disappointed  and  impatient.  For  the  sum  and 
essence  of  all  allegories  is  a  noble  kind  of  pa- 
tience, that  lives  under  laws  of  time  and  space, 
and  yet  has  a  great  life  of  its  o\sti,  which  events 
can  help  or  hinder,  according  as  we  view  them 
and  receive  them;  and  we  learn,  perhaps  very 
late  in  life,  to  distinguish  between  the  things  that 
it  is  good  for  us  to  keep — sweet  memories  and 
faithful  affections  and  hopes  of  goodness  not  yet 
realised — and  the  things  which  we  ought  to  throw 
away  as  soon  as  we  can — old  grudges  and  poison- 
ous recollections,  and  the  useless  burdens  with 
which,  out  of  a  fearful  sort  of  prudence,  we  weight 
our  uncertain  steps. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  a  more  beautiful  or  a 
happier  gift  than  the  power  of  seeing  past  the 
surface  of  things  into  their  inner  realities.  Of 
course  we  must  not  be  always  drawing  morals 
for  the  sake  of  other  people,  because  then  we  grow 
tiresome,  and  like  a  wind  that  goes  on  turning 
over  the  pages  of  one's  book  in  a  persistent  way, 
as  if  eager  to  get  to  the  end.  Mr.  Interpreter 
in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  with  all  his  similitudes 
and  morals,  must  have  been  a  rather  overpowering 
person  to  live  with,  when  the  pilgrims  had  gone 
on  their  way,  with  pills  and  cordials,  and  the 
family  sate  down  to  luncheon!     Perhaps  he  said 


390  Along  the  Road 

to  his  wife:  "  My  dear,  that  room  full  of  spiders 
was  very  convenieut  this  morning  to  draw  a  moral 
from,  but  it  really  does  not  reflect  much  credit 
upon  your  housemaid !  "  And  I  have  often  won- 
dered what  the  private  thoughts  and  occupations 
were  of  the  two  men,  one  of  whom  had  to  cast 
water  on  the  fire  to  put  it  out,  and  the  other  who 
had  to  cast  oil  secretly  upon  the  flames.  I  can 
imagine  their  comparing  notes  and  agreeing  that 
their  posts  were  rather  unsatisfactory,  and  not 
likely  to  lead  to  anything ! 

Then  there  is  another  thing  that  has  often  struck 
me  about  allegories ;  and  that  is  that  they  are  on 
the  whole  so  discouraging.  The  percentage  of  suc- 
cessful candidates  for  the  heavenly  honours  is  so 
extremely  small!  The  man  goes  upon  his  quest 
backed  by  all  sorts  of  wonderful  powers,  and  he 
makes  such  foolish  mistakes,  and  finds  such  a 
record  of  failures — the  bones  in  the  grass,  the 
careless  predecessors  turned  into  pigs  or  pea- 
cocks, the  foolish  wayfarers  being  put  into  a 
hole  at  the  side  of  the  hill — that  the  wonder  is 
that  any  one  ever  gets  through  at  all!  One  de- 
sires a  very  different  kind  of  allegory,  a  race  like 
the  Caucus-race  in  Alice  in  Wonderland,  where 
every  one  wins  and  every  one  has  a  prize. 

But  as  a  wise  friend  of  mine  said  to  me  the 
other  day,  if  one  must  think  of  percentages  at 
all,  it  may  be  just  the  other  way  round.  The  per- 
verse and  greedy  have  fallen  into  snares  and  pits, 
and  they  may  be  the  tiny  percentage  who  do  not 


Allegories  391 

get  through.  But  all  the  while  an  endless  stream 
of  pilgrims  have  been  marching  past,  and  pass- 
ing on,  and  the  walls  and  parapets  of  the  heavenly 
city  are  full  of  smiling  persons  who  look  over, 
and  welcome  the  tired  souls  who  struggle  in  with 
gladness  and  astonishment,  under  the  melodious 
notes  of  the  silver  trumpets,  hardly  daring  to 
believe  that  they  are  actually  there. 

And  I  am  sure  that  on  the  whole  one  of  the 
things  that  hurts  us  most  and  keeps  us  back,  is 
that  we  will  continue  to  think  of  trials  and  sor- 
rows and  misfortunes  as  things  that  are  actually 
there,  injuring  us  and  threatening  us,  when  they 
are  as  dead  as  Giant  Despair.  Evil  is,  of  course, 
liorribly  powerful;  but  it  is  also  strangely  unreal. 
Half  the  torture  of  a  mistake  is  the  misery  of 
considering  what  other  people  will  think  of  it 
all,  as  if  that  made  any  difference!  The  mistake 
was  made,  and  we  trust,  now  that  we  are  wiser, 
that  we  shall  not  make  it  again.  What  ought  to 
vex  us  is  that  we  were  weak  enough  or  foolish 
enough  to  make  it,  not  that  other  people  will 
blame  us.  Tt  was  a  very  cynical  man  who  said 
that  the  first  commandment  of  all  was  "  Thou 
Shalt  not  be  found  out."  We  may  be  thankful 
indeed  that  all  we  have  done  and  thought  is  not 
known  to  others,  because  their  disapproving  looks 
would  be  a  sad  and  mournful  reflection  of  our 
own  self-displeasure;  while,  if  we  come  to  a  better 
mind,  it  is  a  good  and  wholesome  thing  to  forgot 
our  mistakes,  and  not  to  encourage  them  to  hang 


392  Along  the  Road 

round  us  like  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies.  But  it 
is  essential  that  we  should  find  ourselves  out  and 
have  no  dull  pretences.  There  is  a  striking  little 
story  I  once  read — I  have  forgotten  where — of  a 
man  entertaining  his  own  conscience.  The  man 
— that  is,  his  conventional  and  complacent  self 
— gets  a  good  meal  ready,  but  his  conscience  comes 
in  tired  and  woe-begone,  cannot  taste  the  food, 
and  puts  his  head  down  upon  his  hands.  The 
man  says  that  it  is  hardly  courteous  to  come  so 
ill-dressed  and  be  so  unsociable.  The  conscience 
says :  "  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  quite  worn  out. 
If  you  knew  what  I  know,  you  could  not  smile 
and  eat."  Then  the  man  says  patronisingly :  "  Oh, 
I  dare  say  there  are  plenty  of  people  who  have 
done  far  worse ;  it  does  not  do  to  think  too  much 
of  these  things.  Least  said  is  soonest  mended." 
And  then  the  conscience  looks  up,  and  says, 
"  Well,  let  me  remind  you  of  something,"  and 
he  tells  him  a  tale  of  old  ingratitude  and  un- 
kindness  which  spoils  the  man's  appetite,  and 
makes  him  get  up  from  the  table  in  a  rage.  I 
forget  how  the  story  went  on,  but  they  settled 
that  they  would  try  to  work  better  together. 

But  if  there  is  a  danger  in  being  content  to 
plod  along,  and  take  things  dully  as  they  come, 
without  looking  forwards  or  backwards,  there  is 
also  a  danger  in  allegorising  overmuch,  and  get- 
ting to  regard  one's  own  little  pilgrimage  as  the 
one  central  fact  of  importance  in  the  world.  We 
have  to  remember  that  it  is  a  great  thing  to  be 


Allegories  393 

allowed  to  go  on  pilgrimage  at  all,  that  Mr.  Gaius, 
for  all  bis  hospitality,  has  other  peoi)le  to  enter- 
tain beside  ourselves,  and  that  we  cannot  order 
rooms  in  the  House  Beautiful  or  use  it  as  an 
agreeable  residence.  There  are  very  strong  things 
all  about  us,  both  for  and  against  us,  and  we  are 
lucky  if  we  slip  through  unhurt. 

The  most  dreadful  fact  of  all  is  that  it  is  easy, 
if  we  are  selfish  and  romantic  together,  to  imagine 
that  we  are  like  Christian  or  Faithful,  while  all 
the  time  we  may  be  like  Ignorance,  sauntering  in 
a  bypath,  or  like  the  young  woman  whose  name 
was  Dull,  or  we  may  even  be  bearing  still  more 
disreputable  names.  We  must  be  sure  that  we 
really  are  on  pilgrimage,  not  merely  being  carried 
in  a  comfortable  train  through  exciting  and  in- 
teresting places.  It  is  not  a  pilgrimage  which  we 
can  take  with  a  Baedeker  in  our  hands,  nor  can 
we  hope  that  we  can  do  the  journey  entirely  on  the 
Delectable  Mountains.  There  are  dull  stretches 
of  road  which  we  do  well  to  beguile  with  fine 
memories  and  hopes;  while  in  the  dark  valley 
itself,  with  the  hobgoblins  howling  in  the  smoke, 
the  less  we  can  think  of  them,  and  the  more  we 
can  remember  our  glimpse  through  the  Shepherd's 
perspective-glass  of  the  city,  so  much  the  better  for 
ourselves  and  for  all  that  walk  in  our  company. 


PUBLICITY  AND  PRWAOY 

I  WAS  sitting  the  other  day  with  an  old  friend, 
who  had  called  upon  me  in  my  rooms  at  Cam- 
bridge, when  a  telegram  was  brought  in.  I  read 
it,  apologising,  and  then  said,  showing  it  to  him, 
"  I  only  wonder  that  it  can  pay  to  do  this  to  any 
extent ! "  It  was  a  wire  from  a  very  up-to-date 
daily  paper,  requesting  to  know  my  opinion  on 
some  current  topic,  and  enclosing  a  double  pre- 
paid reply  form. 

My  friend,  I  must  first  say,  is  an  elderly  man, 
scholarly,  fastidious,  extremely  refined,  a  con- 
siderable student,  and  very  retiring  by  nature, 
but  with  a  fine  natural  courtesy  which  makes 
him  on  the  too  rare  occasions  when  I  see 
him  the  most  charming  of  companions.  If  his 
eye  ever  falls  on  these  words,  which  is  not  likely, 
he  will  not  take  umbrage  at  this  description, 
which  is  literally  and  precisely  true. 

He  read  the  telegram ;  while  I  drew  out  a  stylo- 
graph, and  asking  him  to  excuse  me  for  a  minute, 
began  to  write.  He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment, 
across  the  pink  paper.  Then  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  the  deepest  amazement,  "  You  are  surely  not 
394 


Publicity  and  Privacy  395 

going  to  answer  that?"  "Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am 
— why  not?  "  "  You  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  "  that 
you  are  going  to  allow  your  name  to  appear,  with 
your  opinion  on  this  question,  in  a  daily  paper, 
to  be  read  by  hundreds  of  readers?  It  is  simply 
inconceivable  to  me!  and  just  because  an  editor 
asks  you ! " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  am  certainly  going  to  answer 
it.  It  is  a  question  on  which  I  hold  perfectly 
definite  views,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sorry  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  stating  them.  I  don't,  I  confess, 
quite  see  why  my  opinion  is  wanted,  nor  why  it 
should  be  of  the  smallest  interest  to  anyone  to 
know  what  I  think  about  it.  But  if  anyone  does 
wish  to  know,  I  am  prepared  to  tell  him  my 
opinion,  just  as  I  should  tell  you,  if  you  asked 
me." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  must  say  that  you  sur- 
prise me — I  am  very  much  surprised.  I  would  n't 
do  that  for  a  hundred  pounds." 

"  I  wish,"  I  said,  "  that  you  would  tell  me 
exactly  and  frankly  why  you  should  object?  If 
you  have  an  opinion  on  a  subject,  and  are  not 
ashamed  of  your  opinion,  why  should  you  not 
state  it?" 

"  I  really  don't  quite  know,"  he  said ;  "  I  don't 
think  I  can  give  any  logical  reason;  it  is  more 
a  matter  of  feeling.  I-  am  afraid  I  should  think 
it — you  don't  mind  my  using  the  word? — terribly 
vulgar.  It  seems  to  me  against  all  my  instincts 
of  privacy  and  propriety  to  do  a  thing  like  this. 


39^  Along  the  Road 

I  dare  say  I  am  very  old-f ashioued ;  but  it  seems 
to  me  impertinent  that  you  should  be  asked,  and 
quite  dreadful  that  you  should  consent,  to  gratify 
a  trivial  curiosity." 

"  Well/'  I  said,  "  I  fully  realise  that  your  feel- 
ing is  a  much  more  delicate  and  refined  one  than 
my  own ;  I  look  at  it  in  a  very  commonplace  light. 
I  should  like  people  to  take  the  same  view  of  this 
question  as  I  take  myself.  I  don't  expect  to  con- 
vert many  people  to  my  way  of  thinking;  but  if 
anyone  is  likely  to  regard  my  opinion,  and  to 
modify  his  own  in  consequence  of  knowing  mine,  I 
am  only  too  happy  to  make  him  a  present  of  mine. 
I  do  not  see  that  it  is  worse  than  writing  a  signed 
article  on  a  subject,  or  a  book.  In  fact,  I  think  it 
is  less  open  to  objection ;  for  when  I  write  an  ar- 
ticle or  a  book,  I  sell  my  opinions,  or  at  least  offer 
them  for  sale;  while  this  is  wholly  gratuitous." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  see  that  your  view  is  quite 
consistent  and  probably  sensible.  But  that  any 
editor  should  feel  at  liberty  to  rush  into  your 
room  like  this  with  a  question,  and  that  you 
should  feel  bound  in  any  way  to  allow  your 
opinions  to  be  made  public,  seems  to  me  entirely 
improper  and  undignified." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  I  only  regard  it  as  a  legitimate 
extension  of  conversation !  In  a  conversation  one 
can  make  one's  opinions  audible  to  about  a  dozen 
people ;  in  a  newspaper  one  can  make  them  audible 
to  about  a  hundred  thousand  people — and  the 
more  the  merrier ! " 


Publicity  and  Privacy  397 

My  friend  gave  a  sort  of  sigh,  and  said, 
'^  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  in  a  melancholy  tone; 
but  I  could  see  that  he  was  both  puzzled  and 
distressed. 

^VTien  he  left  me  I  began  to  think  over  the 
question  again,  and  to  search  out  my  spirits,  to 
see  if  in  any  corner  of  my  mind  I  could  detect 
any  lurking  sense  of  impropriety  in  the  proceed- 
ing.    But  I  can  find  none. 

I  have  a  very  strong  feeling  about  one's  right 
to  privacy — indeed,  I  think  that  one  has  a  per- 
fect right  to  refuse  such  requests  as  these.  One 
may  have  formed  no  opinion  on  a  subject,  or  one 
may  not  wish  one's  opinion  to  be  known.  I  cer 
tainly  do  not  think  that  anyone  has  a  right  to 
claim  to  call  upon  one  or  to  demand  to  see  one. 
I  very  much  resent  the  kind  of  letter  I  sometimes 
get,  which  says :  "  I  have  been  reading  one  of  your 
books  with  interest,  and  as  I  am  passing  through 
Cambridge  to-morrow,  I  shall  venture  to  call  and 
make  your  acquaintance."  I  think  that  this 
savours  of  impertinence,  because  it  may  not  be 
convenient  or  pleasant  to  me  to  receive  a  stranger 
on  such  terms.  In  such  a  case  a  man  ought  to 
obtain  a  proper  introduction  from  a  mutual 
friend.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  always 
w  elcome  a  friendly  letter  about  a  book,  or  a  civil 
question  about  a  statement  made  in  a  book. 
That  is  a  perfectly  legitimate  thing  to  do,  though 
I  have  a  right,  if  I  choose,  not  to  answer  it. 
But    to    claim    one's    time    and    attention    and 


39^  Along  the  Road 

presence  is  a  very  different  matter,  especially  if 
one's  consent  is  taken  for  granted. 

Of  course  a  writer  in  whose  writings  there  is 
a  certain  autobiographical  element  is  bound  to 
be  criticised,  as  I  have  often  been,  for  having  no 
proper  sense  of  privacy  and  intimacy.  Critics 
speak  of  it  as  though  it  were  like  substituting  a 
plate-glass  front  to  one's  house  for  a  brick  one, 
and  having  one's  meals  and  going  to  bed  in  public. 
I  do  not  contest  that  opinion;  and  if  a  man  feels 
that  an  intime  book  is  indelicate,  he  has  every 
right  to  say  so.  But  I  think  it  is  very  difficult 
to  give  a  good  reason  for  the  objection.  I  myself 
value  the  sense  of  intimacy  and  personality  in  a 
book  above  all  other  qualities.  The  appeal  of  all 
poets,  dramatists,  and  essayists  is  based  entirely 
upon  their  intimacy.  It  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  all  the  difference  between  telling  the  world 
what  you  choose  to  tell  it,  and  letting  people  see 
and  investigate  for  themselves.  The  only  objec- 
tion I  make  to  autobiographical  books  is  that 
they  are  sometimes  dull — pompous,  complacent, 
heavy,  self-satisfied.  The  more  that  a  man  like 
Ruskin  deigns  to  tell  me  about  himself,  the  better 
I  am  pleased ;  but  I  am  sometimes  frankly  bored 
by  pious  JEueas  and  his  adventures.  It  all  de- 
pends upon  whether  the  recital  is  egotistical, 
whether  the  writer  takes  himself  too  seriously. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  one  feels  that  a  man  is 
intensely  interested  in  his  experiences,  not  only 
because  they  are  his  own,  but  because  they  are 


Publicity  and  Privacy  399 

just  the  things  that  happen  to  him,  the  things 
he  knows  and  cares  about,  the  impression  is  de- 
lightful. I  had  ten  times  rather  have  a  man's 
account  of  his  own  vivid  actual  thoughts  and 
adventures,  than  his  dull  and  faulty  imaginations 
and  fancies.  I  want  to  know  what  life  is  like 
to  other  people,  and  what  they  think  about  it  all, 
not  their  platitudes  and  melodramas.  It  seems 
to  me  that  one  of  the  blessed  results  of  the  multi- 
plication of  books  and  newspapers  is  that  one 
can  talk  to  a  larger  audience.  I  like  talking  to 
people,  and  hearing  them  talk,  if  they  will  only 
say  what  they  really  think,  and  not  put  me 
off  with  conventional  remarks  about  things  in 
which  neither  of  us  takes  the  smallest  interest. 
Stale  gossip,  old  stories,  the  weather,  the  last 
railway  accident,  cautious  and  incomplete  views 
of  politics — these  are  the  heavy  matters,  litur- 
gically  recited,  which  make  conversation  insup- 
portable. But  if  a  companion  has  interests,  views, 
prejudices,  preferences,  and  if  he  will  discuss 
them,  not  merely  state  them,  and  show  a  decent 
interest  in  one's  own  views,  then  any  talk  becomes 
interesting.  I  think  that  writers  on  current 
topics  should  aim  at  being  just  as  frank  and 
open  in  their  writings  as  they  would  be  in  talk 
with  a  trusted  friend.  And  the  more  that  one 
trusts  people,  and  listens  with  courtesy  and  fair- 
ness to  their  views,  the  better  for  us  all.  No 
one  i^erson  can  form  a  complete  and  comprehen- 
sive judgment  of  life  and  its  issues;  the  only 


400  Along  the  Road 

way  to  arrive  at  a  solution  is  to  balance  and 
weigh  the  views  of  other  people;  and  it  is  a 
wholesome  and  a  bracing  thing  to  know  that  men 
whom  one  respects — and  even  men  whom  one  does 
not  respect — may  disagree  with  one,  wholly  and 
entirely,  on  almost  all  subjects  of  importance. 

I  had  a  very  pleasant  adventure  the  other  day. 
I  went  to  speak  to  an  audience  in  London,  most 
of  whom,  I  afterwards  learned,  had  read  some  of 
my  books.  I  can  only  say  that  it  was  one  of  the 
most  comfortable  and  encouraging  experiences  I 
have  ever  had,  not  because  I  was  satisfied  with 
my  lecture,  but  because,  from  first  to  last,  I  really 
felt  that  I  was  among  friends,  and  surrounded 
with  simple  kindness  and  goodwill.  I  cannot  see 
that  any  one  was  the  worse  for  this.  It  did  not 
make  me  believe  that  I  was  a  prophet  or  a  teacher ; 
it  simply  enabled  me  to  feel  that  we  all  met  on 
grounds  of  perfectly  easy  and  simple  friendliness. 
My  friends  were  quite  prepared  to  listen  to  any- 
thing I  had  to  say,  and  I  did  my  best  to  interest 
them.  I  got  far  more  than  I  gave,  for  we  met 
in  what  the  old  prayer  calls  the  bond  of  peace, 
and  on  grounds  of  perfectly  simple  human  inter- 
est. I  believe  that  our  suspicions  and  mistrusts 
of  one  another  are  really  very  old  and  barbarous 
things,  primitive  inheritances  from  the  time  when 
every  man  had  to  fight  for  his  own  hand.  But 
we  have  come  to  the  threshold  of  a  very  different 
era,  a  time  when  we  must  be  prepared  to  give  all 
we  can,  and  not  simply  to  take  all  we  can  get. 


Publicity  and  Privacy  401 

The  laws  of  time  and  space  forbid  us  to  live  our 
lives  in  company  with  the  whole  world;  but  we 
can  try  to  believe  that  the  affection  and  kindness 
we  meet  with  in  our  own  little  circles  are  waiting 
for  us  on  every  side;  and  the  more  that  we  can 
step  outside  of  our  limitations,  and  clasp  hands 
with  unknown  friends,  the  better  for  us  all. 


EXPERIENCE 

It  often  seems  to  me  a  difficult  point,  illustrat- 
ing the  curious  fact  that  the  materials  of  the 
world  are  so  good  but  so  imperfectly  adjusted, 
that  busy  and  effective  people  get  too  little  experi- 
ence out  of  life,  and  idle  and  ineffective  people 
get  too  much.  The  effective  man  perceives  so 
little  of  the  movement  of  the  mind  and  thought 
of  humanity,  because  he  modifies  to  such  an  ex- 
tent the  thoughts  and  dispositions  of  those  with 
whom  he  comes  into  contact;  they  become  what 
he  expects  them  to  be,  and  what  they  feel  he 
expects  them  to  be.  I  have  so  often  seen  a  mas- 
terful man  in  contact  with  submissive  people, 
under  the  impression  that  he  reads  them  like  a 
book,  when  all  he  sees  is  his  own  reflected  light, 
as  though  the  sun  were  to  analyse  and  despise 
the  light  of  the  moon.  A  really  masterful  char- 
acter, if  it  be  also  even  superficially  affectionate, 
does  seem  to  me  to  know  so  little  about  humanity 
as  a  rule.  I  know,  for  instance,  an  enthusiastic 
and  ardent  admirer  of  the  classics,  a  schoolmaster, 
who  quotes  to  me  triumphantly  instances  of  the 
pathetic  interest  which  his  pupils  take  in  the 
402 


Experience  403 

classics,  to  prove  that  the  classics  are,  after  all, 
the  oiilj  kind  of  culture  that  really  appeals  to 
the  human  heart.  He  does  uot  know,  and  I  can- 
not tell  hini,  that  all  the  interest  he  detects  is 
simply  a  submissive  and  gentle  hypocrisy,  a  desire 
to  please  and  satisfy  him,  a  desperate  clinging  to 
anything  which  his  pupils  know  will  win  his  ap- 
proval. And  I  have,  too,  in  my  mind  a  very 
decisive  academical  personage,  who  detects  and 
praises  business  capacities  and  clear-headed  views 
in  the  minds  of  the  most  muddled  and  unbusiness- 
like of  the  satellites  who  agree  with  him.  "  Poor 
So-and-so!"  I  can  hear  him  say.  "Of  course  he 
has  not  much  head  for  business,  but  he  somehow 
catches  the  drift  of  a  question,  and  knows  what 
is  the  right  line  to  follow." 

Tlie  effective  man  is  always  dealing  with  things, 
and  turning  possibilities  into  facts,  and  driving 
the  machine  to  such  an  extent  that  he  cannot 
notice  the  bits  of  the  road  and  the  sort  of  land- 
8cai>e  through  which  he  is  passing;  he  is  so  pre- 
occui)ied  with  steering  his  big  concern  along 
streets,  slackening  or  putting  on  speed,  dodging 
through  other  vehicles,  that  he  cannot  know  what 
the  faces  are  that  look  out  of  the  ui)i>er  windows, 
or  interpret  the  life  of  the  by-road  or  the  alley. 
He  gets  to  know  something  of  the  quality  of 
opposing  forces,  but  nothing  of  the  forces  which 
are  neither  in  opposition  nor  in  symi)ath3'.  The  re- 
sult is  that  he  overlooks  or  underrates  all  the 
vague  and  beautiful  influences,  which  flow  on  in- 


404  Along  the  Road 

dependently,  and  which  perhaps  many  years  ago 
gave  the  very  impulse  to  the  movement  which  he 
is  now  engaged  in  directing. 

And  then,  on  the  other  hand,  the  ineffective, 
restless,  spectatorial  people  get,  as  I  have  said, 
too  much  experience.  Their  time  and  energy  are 
not  taken  up  with  the  alert  conduct  of  some 
definite  scheme  or  duty.  They  see  too  much  an<l 
know  too  much  of  the  great  torrent  of  vague 
impulses,  and  the  stagnant  expanses  of  inertia, 
the  sickly  malarious  swamps  of  morbidity.  They 
are  too  much  bewildered  by  it  all,  just  as  the 
effective  are  not  bewildered  enough.  The  reasons 
for  inaction  multiply  about  them;  they  see  that 
activity  often  does  little  more  than  stir  the  sur- 
face without  bidding  the  waters  flow;  they  are 
fastidious  about  adding  one  more  to  the  pile  of 
failures;  they  do  not  see  the  use  of  trying  to 
define  their  own  inexactness. 

Sometimes,  as  life  goes  on,  a  reversal  of  these 
positions  is  brought  about.  The  busy  man  be- 
comes an  extinct  volcano,  of  which  the  burnt-out 
crater  is  not  even  menacing,  but  only  incon- 
venient and  perhaps  picturesque.  He  sits  bully- 
ing people  over  the  petty  and  unimportant 
enterprises  in  which  he  is  still  allowed  to  take 
a  share.  But  the  ineffective  man  sometimes  blos- 
soms out  into  a  kindly  and  gracious  creature; 
things  have  at  last  become  a  little  plainer,  and 
he  knows  at  least  where  to  bestow  his  sympathy. 
He  does  not  expect  a  prompt  settlement  of  all 


Experience  405 

conflicting  claims,  but  he  knows  dimly  what  he 
desires,  and  he  is  on  the  side  of  things  orderly 
and  peaceful,  neither  contemptuous  of  movement 
nor  impatient  of  delay. 

One  sees  all  this  sometimes  in  the  faces  of 
people.  I  know  nothing  more  melancholy  than 
the  sight  of  dilapidated  force,  the  fierce  gesture 
and  the  commanding  eye  with  no  authority  be- 
hind; the  truculence,  wiiich  is  merely  grotesque 
rudeness,  extorting  just  a  momentary  and  mean- 
ingless deference,  and  then  politely  disregarded; 
and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  the  person  w^ho  has 
never  been  of  much  account,  but  who  has  been 
affectionate,  humble-minded,  and  patient,  gets  a 
look  of  serenity,  of  contented  waiting,  which 
transfigures  a  battered  face  from  within.  One 
sees  it  in  the  faces  of  old  and  tired  village  people, 
who  have  done  such  work  as  they  could  ever  hope 
to  do,  and  can  take  life  as  they  find  it,  with  a 
smiling  dignity,  which  is  very  different  from  the 
dignity  of  conscious  powder,  and  looks  as  if  some- 
how self  had  melted  out  into  a  patience  which 
enjoys  rather  than  endures. 

Very  rarely  one  sees  a  union  of  the  two,  where 
a  man  has  been  effective  and  active,  and  yet  has 
never  lost  sight  of  the  limits  and  deficiencies  of 
effectiveness,  and  into  whose  face  comes  a  light 
not  so  much  of  a  tired  sunset,  as  the  promise  of 
a  further  daw^n. 

Women  have  to  bear  the  stress  of  this  lapse  of 
energies  even   more  than  men;   to  an   exciting 


4o6  Along  the  Road 

girlhood  succeeds  marriage,  the  fierce  joys  and 
])i-eoccupations  of  motherhood,  the  sympathetic 
liaiidling  of  the  varying  dispositions  of  the  grow- 
ing family ;  then  the  launching  away  of  the  little 
ships  begins;  the  boys  settle  down  to  work  in 
the  world,  the  girls  marry;  and  quite  suddenly, 
sometimes,  the  wheels  stop  working,  and  the 
mother,  whose  life  has  been  so  full  of  others' 
cares,  finds  herself  in  a  moment  with  nothing 
whatever  to  do  but  to  manage  a  house,  and  to 
devote  herself  to  her  husband,  whose  interests  in 
many  cases  have  been  rather  thrust  into  the 
shade  by  the  life  and  problems  of  the  children. 
Or  widowhood  brings  with  it  a  sudden  cessation 
of  duties;  and  a  woman  finds  herself  obliged  to 
make  a  life  of  her  own,  when  all  along  her  life 
has  been  made  for  her  and  forced  upon  her. 

It  is  useless  to  say  that  men  and  women  must 
keep  the  evening  of  life  in  view  and  plan  for  it. 
There  is  often  neither  time  nor  taste  to  do  so. 
Hobbies,  reading,  outlying  friendships  have  all 
been  swept  away  joyfully  enough  by  the  rush  of 
the  vital  tide;  and  of  all  things  the  most  difficult 
is  to  construct  interests  out  of  trivialities,  when 
life  has  been  too  full  of  energies  for  trivialities 
to  have  a  place  at  all,  except  as  interruptions  to 
the  real  business  of  the  moment. 

Of  course  it  would  be  all  easy  enough  if  we 
had  our  fill  of  life,  and  the  evening  were  but  a 
time  of  wholesome  and  comfortable  weariness. 
But  this  natural  and  normal  development  is  con- 


Experience  407 

stantly  broken  in  upon  by  untoward  circum- 
stiinte.  Illness,  bereavement,  calamity,  come,  and 
the  flight  lapses  suddenly  in  mid-career.  Not 
everyone  can  begin  to  collect  shells  or  to  study 
jmlitical  economy,  when  life  falls  in  ruins  about 
him. 

It  ought  to  be  so  plain  what  to  do,  and  it  is, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  so  difficult  and  intricate.  If 
one  could  but  make  some  quiet  secret  investment 
of  fancy  and  hope,  which  would  be  there,  safe 
and  secure,  when  we  are  suddenly  beggared !  The 
figure  of  Mrs.  Leigh  in  Wesftcard  Ho!  so  serene 
and  gracious,  entirely  occupied  in  religious  con- 
templation and  parental  adoration,  is  an  attrac- 
tive one  at  first,  but  becomes  melodramatic  and 
unreal  if  one  looks  at  it  closer. 

I  suppose  that  the  over-busy  people  ought  to 
try  to  clear  a  little  space  in  their  lives,  in  which 
they  may  make  sure  that  the  arrows  of  God 
strike  home;  because  the  eager,  rushing,  restless 
life  often  holds  up  a  shield  against  reality.  It 
is  easy  to  say  that  they  ought  to  do  this,  but 
when  life  is  crammed  with  practical  things  which 
at  all  events  seem  to  want  doing,  it  is  very  hard 
to  set  aside  from  one's  active  time  an  hour  which 
one  is  not  quite  sure  how  to  occupy,  an  hour  of 
vague  abstraction,  which  seems  merely  so  much 
time  wasted.  The  case  is  easier  for  the  people 
whose  time  is  not  actively  occupied  and  who  are 
over-burdened  with  fruitless  reflection.  I  received 
the  other  day  a  letter  from  a  clever  and  unhappy 


4o8  Along  the  Road 

woman,  wealthy,  childless,  widowed,  in  indifferent 
health,  who  said  that  she  had  no  obvious  duties, 
and  found  the  enigma  of  the  world  press  heavily 
upon  her.  Such  a  one  ought,  I  think,  at  what- 
ever cost  of  distastefulness  or  boredom,  to  take 
up  a  piece  of  tangible  and  practical  work.  Un- 
paid work  is  not  difficult  to  find,  and  a  task  does 
relieve  and  steady  the  mind  in  a  wonderful 
manner. 

One  does  not  want  experience,  real  and  vital 
experience,  to  be  either  on  the  one  hand  a  casual 
visitor  to  a  mind,  like  a  bird  which  hops  and 
picks  about  a  lawn,  and  hardly  dints  its  surface ; 
nor  does  one,  on  the  other  hand,  desire  it  to  be 
a  weight  put  over  life  and  flattening  it  out,  like 
a  stone  that  lies  upon  a  grass-plot,  crushing  the 
grass  into  a  pale  and  sickly  languor,  and  afford- 
ing a  home  for  loathly  and  shadow-loving  insects. 
But  it  is  hard  to  find  sufficient  initiative  to  cor- 
rect faults  of  temperament.  It  is  so  easy  to 
follow  the  line  of  least  resistance,  and  to  be 
busy  or  dreary,  as  circumstances  dictate. 

The  happiest  lot  of  all  is  to  have  enough 
definite  duties  to  take  off  the  humours  of  the 
mind,  and  enough  energy  to  use  leisure  profit- 
ably— if  one  is  as  Martha,  to  resolve  to  sit  still 
and  listen  to  the  blessed  talk;  and  if  one  is  as 
Mary,  to  be  ready  to  lend  a  hand  to  wash  the 
plates.  As  Euskin  once  wrote  in  one  of  those 
large  and  true  summaries  of  principle  which  fell 
so  easily  from  his  hand :    "  Life  without  industry 


Experience  409 

is  guilt;  and  industry  without  art  [by  which  he 
meant  the  disinterested  love  of  beautiful  and 
noble  things]  is  brutality."  That  is  the  truth, 
make  what  excuses  we  may. 


RESIGNATION 

Some  time  ago  I  was  sitting  with  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  the  talk  drifted  on  to  a  friend  of  his, 
Anson  by  name,  whom  I  just  knew  by  sight,  and 
had  met  perhaps  two  or  three  times.  Anson  was 
a  young  man,  under  thirty,  and  his  wife  had  just 
died,  after  two  years  of  married  life,  leaving  him 
with  a  baby  boy.  The  wife,  whom  I  also  just 
knew,  was  a  perfectly  delightful  creature,  warm- 
hearted, vivid,  interested  in  many  things,  and  of 
great  personal  beauty  and  charm. 

I  said,  I  think,  that  I  simply  could  not  under- 
stand how  a  man  could  endure  such  a  blow  at 
all — how  it  would  be  possible  to  go  on  living  after 
such  a  bereavement,  missing  so  beloved  a  com- 
panion at  every  moment.  ^'  It  is  not,"  I  said,  "  as 
the  common  i)hrase  goes,  losing  the  half  of  one's 
life,  for  in  a  marriage  like  that  it  would  seem  to 
be  the  whole  of  life  that  is  gone;  I  do  not  sup- 
pose that  there  was  a  thought  he  did  not  share 
with  her,  and  hardly  a  waking  moment  when  she 
was  out  of  his  thoughts." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  my  friend.  "  It  was  just 
one  of  those  absolutely  perfect  marriages;  and 
410 


Resignation  411 

yet  lie  is  bearing  his  loss  with  astonishing  patience 
and  resignation.     He  is  simply  wonderful  I  " 

'•  Ah ! "  I  said,  "  I  do  not  really  like  that  word 
in  that  connection.  I  don't  know  poor  Anson 
well  enough  to  say;  but  when  the  word  *  won- 
derful ■  is  used,  it  seems  to  me  to  imply  a  dan- 
gerous exaltation  of  spirit,  which  is  followed  by 
a  terrible  reaction ;  or  else — well,  I  hardly  like  to 
say  it,  because  it  seems  cynical,  but  it  is  not — 
but  I  suspect  such  jieople  of  not  caring  as  much 
as  it  would  be  natural  to  imagine — of  having 
consolations  in  fact.  I  know  an  elderly  lady 
whose  husband  died  after  an  illness  of  some 
mqnths.  They  were  a  very  devoted  pair,  I  had 
always  thought.  She  was  a  woman  who  had 
always  subordinated  her  life  to  his;  and  he, 
though  a  very  affectionate  man,  was  an  exacting 
one  too.  Well,  she  bore  it  *  wonderfully,'  and 
then  it  turned  out  that  when  his  illness  was  pro- 
nounced hopeless  she  had  quietly,  without  saying 
anything  about  it,  bought  a  house  in  Florence; 
she  went  off  there  after  his  death,  and  I  don't 
honestly  think  she  suffered  very  much.  I  do  not 
mean  for  an  instant  that  she  did  not  regret  him, 
or  that  she  would  not  have  done  anything  to  have 
saved  him  or  to  have  got  him  back;  the  process 
was  wholly  unconscious;  but  I  really  believe  that 
she  had  suffered  all  her  life  without  knowing  it 
from  a  pent-up  individuality,  and  from  having  no 
life  of  her  own,  and  this,  I  think,  came  to  her 
assistance;  the  interest  of  being  able  to  lay  out 


412  Along  the  Road 

lier  life  upon  her  own  lines  did  distract  and  sus- 
tain her.  Of  course,  she  may  have  suffered,  but 
she  gave  little  sign  of  it." 

"  I  think  that  is  quite  possible,"  said  my  friend. 
"  A  great  loss  does  brace  people  to  an  effort ;  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  effort  is  enjoyable.  But  T 
will  show  you  a  letter  which  Anson  wrote  me,  in 
reply  to  a  letter  of  my  own,  and  then  you  can 
judge." 

He  took  a  letter  from  a  drawer,  and  gave  it 
me.  It  certainly  was  a  beautiful  letter  in  one 
sense.  The  writer  said  that  the  light  of  his  life 
had  gone  out,  but  that  he  was  going  to  live  "  in 
all  things  even  as  if  she  were  by."  That  he  was 
grateful  for  the  priceless  gift  of  her  love  and 
companionship,  and  looked  forward  with  a  cer- 
tain hope  to  reunion,  and  that  he  knew  that  she 
would  have  been  wholly  brave  herself  if  she  had 
lost  him,  and  that  he  was  going  to  live  as  she 
would  have  wished  him  to  live.  It  was  a  long 
letter,  and  it  breathed  from  end  to  end  the  same 
hopeful  and  tranquil  spirit.  I  read  it  twice 
through,  and  sat  in  silence. 

"  Well,"  said  my  friend  at  last,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  it?  "  "  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  I 
said  at  last,  "  but  I  will  speak  quite  frankly ;  and 
remember,  I  don't  know  Anson,  so  it  is  all  guess- 
work. It  may,  I  think,  be  written  in  a  mood  of 
intense  but  unconscious  excitement.  A  man  may 
feel  to  himself  ^  That  is  how  I  ought  to  think, 
and  that  is  how  I  will  try  to  think ' — and  if  this 


Resignation  4^3 

is  so,  I  should  be  afraid  of  a  terrible  breakdown 
later.  Of  course,  there  is  no  pretence  about  it 
—I  don't  mean  that!  But  it  may  be  the  kind 
of  rapture  which  comes  of  ])ain,  and  that  is  a 
dangerous  rapture.  I  had  far  rather  think  it  is 
tliat.  But  what  I  really  miss  in  it  is  the  human 
cri  du  ca'itr.  The  man  who  wrote  this  had,  so 
to  siKjak,  all  his  wits  about  him.  He  is  not,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  in  an  agony.  He  is  sub- 
lime and  uplifted.  I  feel  that  I  had  rather  know 
that  he  was  utterly  crushed  by  his  loss,  that  he 
could  see  no  one,  do  nothing.  I  don't  think  that 
any  human  love  ought  to  be  able  to  look  so  far 
ahead  at  such  a  moment.  I  have  seen  a  man 
before  now  in  hopeless  grief.  It  was  a  friend  of 
mine  who  had  lost  his  only  son,  a  boy  of  extraor- 
dinary i)romise,  w^ho  w^as  simply  the  ai>ple  of  his 
eye.  Well,  he  was  very  courageous,  too;  he  went 
on  with  his  work,  he  was  tenderly  courteous  and 
considerate,  but  he  could  not  speak  of  his  grief; 
he  hardly  ate  or  slept,  and  he  had  a  perfectly 
heart-breaking  smile  on  his  face,  which  gave  me 
the  feeling  of  chords  strained  to  the  bursting 
j)oint,  as  though  a  touch  would  snap  them.  Now, 
I  don't  feel  as  if  this  letter  came  out  of  a  mood 
like  that,  and  though  again  and  again  we  find 
that  people  do  behave  in  a  desperate  crisis  with 
more  courage  than  would  have  been  expected,  yet 
T  can't  quite  sympathise  with  the  exalted  view. 
It  seems  to  me  to  shirk  or  miss  the  meaning  of 
grief.     I  had  rather  almost  that  he  went  mad,  or 


414  Along  the  Road 

had  an  illness,  or  moped,  or  did  something  human 
and  natural.  I  feel  that  the  way  he  is  behaving 
is  the  way  in  which  people  behave  in  plays  or 
in  books,  when  the  sorrow  is  not  really  there, 
but  only  the  imagined  sorrow.  I  think  that  a 
man  may  win  his  way  to  a  heavenly  patience  and 
acquiescence,  but  it  is  almost  ghastly  that  he 
should  find  it  at  once  in  fullest  measure.  How 
can  a  man,  the  whole  structure  of  whose  life  and 
love  has  suddenly  crumbled  about  him,  look 
through  it  all  in  that  serene  way?  I  don't  think 
that  people  at  such  a  time  ought  to  act  a  part, 
however  fine.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  they  were  more 
conscious  of  the  impressive  effect  of  their  part, 
than  of  the  loss  itself.  I  do  not  think  I  should 
feel  thus  if  a  man  lost  his  fortune  or  his  position 
or  even  his  health.  Those  are  all  calamities  which 
ought  to  be  borne  philosophically,  and  where  one 
respects  and  admires  a  man  for  being  able  to 
smile  and  begin  again.  In  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
Diary  there  is  nothing  so  wonderful  as  the  way 
in  which  he  records  that  the  loss  of  his  wealth 
really  did  not  affect  him  as  much  as  he  had  ex- 
pected, and  that  it  was  a  relief  to  him  when 
everyone  knew  the  facts.  But  when  it  comes  to 
losing  the  closest,  best,  and  sweetest  of  human 
relationships,  all  the  words  and  glances  and  em- 
braces that  are  so  much  in  themselves,  and  stand 
for  so  much  more,  all  the  interchange  of  thoughts 
and  hopes  and  fears  and  wonders — when  all  this 
is  suddenly  ^wept  away  into  silence  and  dark- 


Resignation  415 

ness,  the  misery,  the  pathos,  the  waste,  the  horror 
of  it  must  be  unendurable;  and  faith  itself  is  a 
tiling  that  must  be  won;  it  cannot  be  drunk  like 
a  healing  draught.  One  does  not  want  people 
to  be  able  to  forget,  but  to  triumph  over 
remembrance." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  friend  very  gravely,  "  I  think 
that  is  all  quite  true.  But  Anson  is  not  a  self* 
conscious  man  at  all.  He  is  perfectly  frank  and 
simple.  He  is  writing  in  this  letter  not  platitudes, 
but  experience — I  am  sure  of  that.  Something 
— some  flash  of  hoi)e,  some  certainty,  has  come 
in  between  him  and  his  sorrow;  and  he  is  not 
thinking  of  himself  at  all.  Is  it  possible,  do  you 
suppose — I  do  not  want  to  sj)eak  fancifully  or 
transcendentally — that  he  may  be  sustained  by 
her  conscious  thought?  If  it  were  really  true 
that  she,  out  of  the  body,  seeing  the  truth  and, 
the  significance  of  loss  could  put  her  spirit  in 
touch  with  his,  and  make  him  feel  that  love  were 
not  over,  and  that  separation  were  not  disunion, 
would  that  explain  it?  I  know  it  is  all  a  mys- 
tery, but  surely  we  must  all  feel  that  we  are 
visited  by  thoughts  and  hoi)es  from  time  to  time 
that  are  not  of  our  own  making — that  are  sent 
to  us?  I  could  not,  if  I  would,  believe  that  the 
world  is  so  sharply  cut  off  from  what  lies  behind 
the  world,  from  all  that  has  gone  before  and  all 
that  comes  after.  I  do  not  doubt  that  Anson  will 
have  to  pass  through  dark  hours,  and  learn,  for 
some  reason  which  I  cannot  comprehend,  that  we 


4i6  Along  the  Road 

cannot  live  life  on  our  own  terms,  but  must  give 
up,  not  only  the  base  and  evil  things  which  we 
desire,  but  the  pure,  sweet,  and  beautiful  things 
which  we  recognise.  I  can't  argue  about  these 
things — I  can't  prove  them;  but  such  a  hope  as 
that  which  I  have  indicated  does  not  seem  to  me 
either  unnatural  or  irrational.  I  cannot  analyse 
or  state  or  prove  the  worth  and  energy  of  love. 
I  only  know  that  I  see  in  it  a  perfectly  inex- 
plicable force,  which  makes  men  rise  above  them- 
selves and  perform  the  impossible;  and  I  cannot 
believe  that  that  depends  upon  its  being  expressed 
in  a  human  form,  or  that  it  ends  with  death." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  you  are  right  and  I  am  wrong. 
I  was  speaking  blindly  and  petulantly,  from  the 
point  of  view  of  a  silly  child  whose  toy  is  broken, 
and  whose  holiday  is  spoilt  by  rain.  Instead  of 
doubting  the  larger  force,  when  we  see  it,  be- 
cause we  have  not  ourselves  experienced  it,  we 
ought  to  wait  and  wonder  and  hope.  I  will  try 
to  think  differently  about  it  all.  What  I  said 
amounted  to  this — *  I  cannot  believe  unless  I 
see';  and  what  the  world — or  something  above 
the  world — ^is  telling  us  every  day  and  hour  of 
our  lives  is  simply  this — that  we  cannot  see  unless 
we  believe." 


THE  WIND 

At  the  old  house  where  I  was  lately  living,  my 
window  looked  out  on  to  an  ancient  terraced 
bowling-green,  along  one  side  of  which  skirts  an 
avenue  of  big  Scotch  firs.  On  summer  evenings, 
when  the  breeze  blows  out  of  the  west,  they 
whisper  together  softly  like  a  falling  weir;  but 
the  other  night  a  gale  sprang  up,  and  when  I 
awoke  at  some  dark  hour  of  the  dawn,  they  roared 
like  wide-flung  breakers,  while  the  wind  volleyed 
suddenly  in  the  gables  and  chimney-stacks,  and 
the  oaken  door  of  my  room  creaked  and  strained. 
Some  people  find  that  an  eerie  sound;  and  I  con- 
fess that  a  fitful  wind,  wailing  desolately  round 
the  roofs  of  the  house,  gives  the  sense  of  a  home- 
less wanderer,  hurried  onwards  on  some  unwill- 
ing errand,  and  crying  out  sadly  at  the  thought 
of  people  sleeping  securely  in  quiet  rooms,  and 
w  aking  to  sheltered  life  and  pleasant  cares.  Last 
night,  and  all  day  long,  the  wind  has  something 
boisterous  and  triumphant  about  it,  as  if  it  were 
bound  upon  some  urgent  business,  and  loved  to 
sweep  over  bare  woodlands  and  healthy  hill-tops, 
to  dive  into  deep  valleys,  set  the  quiet  lake  aswiri, 
27  417 


41 8  Along  the  Road 

and  bend  the  sedges  all  one  way.  It  seemed  im- 
possible not  to  attribute  to  it  a  life  and  a  con- 
sciousness, as  of  some  great  presence  flying  all 
abroad,  and  rejoicing  in  its  might. 

I  remember  being  brought  very  close  to  the 
secret  of  the  wind  one  Easter-tide,  when  I  was 
staying  at  a  little  village  called  Boot  in  the  Esk- 
dale  valley  in  Cumberland,  a  lonely  little  place 
between  Scafell  and  the  sea.  We  struck  out  one 
day  over  the  great  moorland  to  the  North,  to- 
wards Wast  Water.  There  was  a  great  steady 
wind  against  us;  we  drew  near  at  last  to  what 
appeared  to  be  the  top,  and  far  beyond  it  we 
could  see  low-lying  moors  and  woods,  and  deso- 
late hills  behind.  The  wind  stopped  quite  sud- 
denly— or  at  least  we  came  out  of  it -into  a  space 
of  silent  air,  with,  if  anything,  a  little  gentle 
breeze  behind  us,  instead  of  in  our  faces.  Just 
ahead  now  were  some  ragged-looking  rocks ;  from 
them  came  a  sound  I  have  never  heard  again,  a 
sort  of  shrill  humming  sound.  We  were  puzzled 
by  the  cessation  of  the  wind,  and  went  to  the 
edge. 

We  found  ourselves  at  the  top  of  the  great 
Wast  Water  screes,  those  black,  furrowed  preci- 
pices of  rock  which  overhang  the  lower  end  of 
the  lake.  The  reason  why  the  wind  had  seemed 
to  drop  was  simply  this.  It  was  blowing  a  raging 
gale  on  the  clifr'-front,  and  the  current  of  air  was 
hurled  up  aloft,  right  over  our  heads,  leaving  a 
quiet  region  with  a  back-draught  of  wind.    It 


The  Wind  4^9 

was  like  being  behind  a  waterfall  turned  upside 
down,  lint  the  strangest  thing  followed.  We 
got  to  the  edge,  so  that  we  could  look  down  the 
steeply-channelled  front,  with  the  dark  lake  be- 
low; and  here  the  wind  came  up  with  such  terrific 
force  that  one  could  lean  out  against  it.  It 
ruslied  up  like  an  irresistible  jelly,  and  a  bit  of 
paper  tiiat  we  held  was  hurled  a  hundred  feet 
up  above  us. 

I  wish  that,  when  I  was  at  school,  some  of 
these  wonderful  processes  of  air  and  light,  of 
cold  and  heat,  had  been  explained  to  me.  We 
had  some  dreary  science  classes,  when  we  did 
things  like  hydrostatics,  and  worked  out  the 
weight  of  columns  of  water;  but  it  never  seemed 
to  have  any  reference  to  the  things  we  were  see- 
ing every  day.  I  never  realised  then  that  a  gale 
only  means  that  somewhere  and  somehow  a  great 
mass  of  air  is  removed,  and  that  a  wind  is  nothing 
more  than  a  general  rush  of  air  from  all  sides 
to  fill  the  gap.  I  thought  of  winds  as  just  irre- 
sponsible rushes  of  air;  and  the  Latin  personifica- 
tion of  them,  Boreas  and  Zephyrus,  and  the  rest, 
gave  it  all  a  freakish,  fairylike  flavour,  which  was 
pretty  enough,  but  nothing  more;  and  then,  too, 
there  were  the  old  pictures,  with  furious,  full- 
cheeked  faces,  like  the  heads  of  middle-aged 
cherubs,  spouting  storm  on  ships  which  leant 
sideways  over  a  steeply-curdled  sea.  I  cannot 
help  feeling  now  that  the  beginning  of  all  know- 
ledge ought  to  be  the  picture  of  our  little  whirl- 


420  Along  the  Road 

iiig  globe,  warmed  by  the  fii'e  of  the  sun,  with 
all  its  seas  and  continents,  its  winds  and  frosts. 
One  began  at  the  other  end  too  much,  at  the 
undue  prominence  of  man;  not  thinking  of  man 
as  a  link  in  a  chain,  a  creature  who,  by  his  won- 
derful devices,  fights  a  better  battle,  and  gets 
more  out  of  the  earth  than  other  creatures;  but 
rather  as  if  all  were  nicely  and  neatly  prepared 
for  him,  just  to  slip  complacently  upon  the  scene. 
One  ought  to  learn  to  think  of  man  as  strangely 
and  wonderfully  permitted  to  be  here,  among  all 
these  mighty  forces  and  mysterious  powers,  not 
as  the  visible  lord  of  creation,  and  with  every- 
thing meant  to  minister  to  him.  It  is  a  mistake, 
I  believe,  because  it  means  that  so  much  has  to 
be  unlearned,  if  one  is  not  to  shirk  the  great 
problem  of  life  and  destiny;  much  of  our  discon- 
tent and  cowardice  comes,  I  think,  from  our  be- 
ginning by  thinking  that  we  have  a  right  to  have 
things  arranged  for  our  convenience  and  comfort, 
instead  of  its  being  a  battle,  where  we  have  to 
win  what  peace  we  can! 

But  I  have  travelled  far  away  in  thought  from 
the  gale  that  roars  in  the  pine-boughs  outside  my 
window,  as  I  sit  with  my  quiet  candles  burning, 
book  on  knee,  and  pencil  in  hand.  There  is  a 
delicious  story  of  George  MacDonald's,  which  1 
think  is  called  At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind. 
I  have  not  read  it  for  years,  but  it  used  to  give 
me  a  delicious  thrill.  It  was  about  a  little  boy, 
I  believe,  who  slept  in  a  bed  in  a  boarded  stable- 


The  Wind  421 

loft,  and  who  was  annoyed  by  the  wind  blowinj^ 
through  a  hole  in  the  boards  near  his  head.  He 
stopped  it  up  with  a  cork,  I  remember,  and  when 
he  was  in  bed  the  cork  was  blown  out  with  a 
bounce,  and  next  minute  there  was  a  beautiful 
(  reature  by  him,  a  fairy  all  covered  with  rippling 
tresses  of  hair.  She  carried  him  with  her  over 
hill  and  dale,  riding  soft  and  warm,  and  night 
after  night  these  airy  pilgrimages  went  on,  while 
she  taught  him  how  everything  in  the  world  was 
bound  together  by  love  and  care.  Well,  that  is 
a  different  way  of  apprehending  the  secret  of  the 
wind,  apart  from  barometrical  depressions;  and 
it  has  its  merits!  The  point,  after  all,  is  some- 
how or  other  to  feel  the  wonder  and  largeness  of 
it  all,  and  the  sense  of  something  which  is  in- 
finitely strong  and  kind  behind  our  little,  restless 
lives.  One  does  not  want  to  obscure  that,  but 
to  feed  it.  One  wants  men  to  learn  on  the  one 
hand  how  small  a  part  of  the  huge  mystery  they 
are,  and  on  the  other  to  feel  the  glory  and  wonder 
of  being  still  a  part  of  it ;  and  so  to  advance,  not 
complacently  and  foolishly,  as  though  we  knew 
all  they  needed  to  know,  and  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible; 
but  rather  as  humble  learners  of  a  prodigious 
secret,  beautiful  beyond  love  and  hoi)e,  of  which 
we  hardly  know  the  millionth  part;  a  secret  in 
which  everything  has  its  sure  and  certain  place, 
from  the  continent  that  stretches  from  pole  to 
pole  to  the  smallest  atom  of  air  that  hurries  on 


422  Along  the  Road 

its  viewless  race;  all  indestructible  alike,  and  the 
human  spirit  the  most  immortal  of  all. 

That  is  what  the  wind  says  to  me  to-night,  as 
it  leaps  and  rushes  from  hill  to  hill,  surely  per- 
forming its  work,  whatever  that  work  may  be.  I 
fly  with  it  in  thought  over  the  silent  homesteads 
and  the  grassy  downs;  above  the  roofs  of  the 
great  city,  with  all  its  twinkling  lights  and 
streaming  smoke;  over  moorland  and  mountain, 
and  out  upon  the  sea  again,  to  the  fields  of 
Northern  ice,  where  its  footsteps  are  not  known. 


THE  USE  OF  POETRY 

Lord  Tennyson  once  went  to  stay  with  Dean 
Bradley,  when  the  latter  was  Headmaster  of 
Marlborough,  and  said  to  him  one  evening,  over 
a  pipe,  that  he  envied  Bradley  with  all  his  heart 
his  life  of  hard,  useful,  honourable  work.  It  is 
not  recorded  what  Bradley — who,  by  the  way, 
detested  tobacco  with  all  his  heart — said  in  reply, 
but  he  no  doubt  let  fall  one  of  those  courteous 
and  pithy  epigrams  which  came  so  often  from 
his  lips.  But  it  is  interesting  to  find  that  a  man 
like  Tennyson,  with  such  a  vocation  and  such  a 
mission,  was  assailed  by  doubts  as  to  the  use  of 
it  all.  Tt  was  not  as  though  Tennyson  waited  for 
fits  of  inspiration,  and  dawdled  in  between.  He 
worked  at  poetry  as  another  man  might  work 
at  accounts,  diligently  and  faithfully.  But,  of 
course,  a  man  of  high  creative  genius,  with  the 
finest  artistic  work  in  hand,  cannot  possibly 
work  all  day  and  day  after  day  at  poetry.  There 
must  be  interposed  long  spaces  of  quiet  reflection 
and  mental  recreation.  The  writing  of  poetry  is 
very  destructive  of  brain  tissue,  and  it  cannot  be 
done  in  a  dull  or  weary  frame  of  mind.  Milton 
423 


424  Along  the  Road 

wrote  about  forty  lines  a  day  of  Paradise  Lost, 
composing  in  his  head,  in  bed  in  the  morning, 
dictating  and  compressing  them  later  in  the  day. 
Few  poets  would  share  the  breezy  opinion  of 
William  Morris,  who  said,  ^'  That  talk  of  inspira- 
tion is  all  stuff!  If  a  man  cannot  compose  an 
epic  poem  in  his  head  when  he  is  weaving  tapestry, 
he  will  do  no  good,  and  had  better  shut  up ! " 
But  then  Morris's  Earthly  Paradise  is,  after  all,  a 
sort  of  woven  tapestry,  and  is  a  very  different  sort 
of  work  from  Paradise  Lost  or  In  Memoriam. 
Morris,  on  one  occasion,  wrote  eight  hundred  lines 
in  a  single  day,  and  probably,  as  they  say,  estab- 
lished a  record. 

Of  course,  Tennyson  was  a  man  of  very  melan- 
choly moods,  and  no  doubt  the  sight  of  a  busy 
and  happy  place  like  Marlborough,  humming  like 
a  hive  of  bees,  and  governed  as  equably  and  peace- 
ably as  Bradley  governed  it,  did  make  him  feel 
that  whatever  was  tlie  value  of  any  literary  work, 
it  could  not  have  the  same  unquestionable  and 
indubitable  beneficence  and  usefulness  as  the 
work  of  a  schoolmaster,  with  its  close  hold  on 
human  life,  the  momentousness  of  its  effects  upon 
character,  and  its  far-reaching  and  germinating 
influence. 

The  work  of  the  poet  is,  after  all,  of  a  secret 
kind ;  all  the  compliments  of  enthusiastic  readers, 
all  the  laudation  of  reviewers,  all  the  honours 
which  the  world  heaps  upon  the  head  of  the  divine 
singer,    cannot   bring   home   to    him    the   silent 


The  Use  of  Poetry  425 

ecstasies  of  joy  and  hope  which  quicken  the  souls 
of  thousands  of  eager  readers  and  disciples.  The 
poet  is  a  shepherd  who  can  neither  see  nor  hear 
his  flock;  and  in  the  case  of  Tennyson,  who  felt 
his  responsibility  deeply,  and  never  lost  sight  of 
the  fact  that  his  work  had  for  its  end  and  aim 
the  clarifying  of  human  vision  and  the  nurture 
of  high  hoi>es  and  pure  ideals,  there  must  have 
been  many  hours  in  which  he  must  have  asked 
himself  what  it  was  all  worth!  He  could  not  see 
the  regeneration  which  he  strove  to  bring  about. 
Just  as  Ruskin  felt,  with  an  acute  sense  of  failure 
and  despondency,  that  the  public  loved  his  pretty 
phrases  and  did  not  care  twopence  about  his 
schemes  for  the  bettering  of  humanity,  so  Tenny- 
son, as  his  later  poems  show,  thought  that  the 
world  was  getting  more  pleasure-loving,  more 
heedless,  more  low-minded  year  by  year,  and  must 
have  wondered,  with  a  bitter  sense  of  regret, 
whether  he  was,  after  all,  more  than  a  mere  maker 
of  word-melodies  and  harmonious  cadences,  which 
touched  and  pleased  the  ear  but  did  not  feed  the 
heart. 

There  is  a  well-known  Greek  legend,  how  the 
citizens  of  Sparta,  after  a  series  of  disasters, 
applied  to  Athens  for  a  leader;  the  Athenians 
sent  them,  to  their  disgust,  a  little  lame  school- 
master called  Tyrta^us;  they  were  wise  enough 
not  to  reject  the  distasteful  advice,  and  found  that 
the  contemptible  creature  was  a  gi'eat  lyric  poet, 
whose  martial  odes  and  war-songs  put  such  heart 


426  Along  the  Road 

into  their  soldiers  that  they  marched  to  victory 
once  more.  The  legend,  it  may  be  feared,  ema- 
nated from  the  brain  of  a  literary  man  rather 
than  from  the  full  heart  of  a  brigadier-general! 
The  fragments  of  Tyrtseus  do  not  display  any 
very  stimulating  quality;  but  the  motive  of  the 
story  is  a  true  one,  namely,  that  vigorous  and 
patriotic  life  is  after  all  a  lyrical  sort  of  busi- 
ness, and  that  without  imagination  and  fervour 
a  nation  is  in  danger  of  living  on  a  low  level,  of 
making  money,  perhaps,  and  amassing  comforts, 
but  not  enriching  the  blood  of  the  world,  or 
quickening  the  hopes  of  the  future. 

The  poet,  then,  must  content  himself  with  his 
sweet  and  noble  music,  and  must  not  expect 
either  material  reward,  or  the  sort  of  recognition 
that  comes  to  the  successful  banker  or  the  vic- 
torious general.  Yet  even  from  the  warlike  point 
of  view,  the  fact  that  such  a  poem  as  The  Happy 
Warrior  could  appeal  to  and  thrill  countless 
hearts  in  generation  after  generation,  serves  at 
least  to  show  that  there  is  a  romantic  force  in 
the  background  of  a  nation,  which  stands  for 
something  even  in  an  era  of  commercial  competi- 
tion. Even  Tennyson  at  Marlborough  might  have 
taken  heart  at  the  thought  that  all  the  miniature 
citizens  of  that  well-ordered  state  w-ere  still,  as 
a  part  of  their  daily  duty,  reading  Virgil — the 
Koman  Gospel,  as  it  has  been  called.  That,  at 
least,  may  serve  to  indicate  the  marvellous  vitality 
of  beauty  and  noble  thought,  and  prove,  if  proof 


The  Use  of  Poetry  427 

were  needed,  that  man  does  not  live  bj-  bread 
alone,  but  by  every  word  proceeding  from  the 
mouth  of  God.  In  these  days  when  we  are  so 
unreasonably  afraid  of  German  influence,  the 
danger,  if  it  exists  at  all,  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
Germans  are  not  given  over  to  commercial  enter- 
prise alone,  but  have  a  romantic  passion  for 
artistic  things,  poetry  and  music,  which  are  the 
sign  if  not  the  cause  of  the  imaginative  and  ad- 
venturous spirit  which  makes  a  race  patriotic  and 
ambitious.  It  is  the  dream  of  victory  and  su- 
premacy which  makes  a  nation  formidable,  not  its 
business  habits  or  its  mercantile  transactions. 

In  one  of  Swinburne's  finest  lyrics,  in  Atalanta 
in  CalydoUy  he  speaks  of  the  nightingale,  and  how 
she  "  feeds  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire."  It 
is  that  which  the  poet  can  claim  and  hope  to 
do.  The  nightingale  herself,  if  she  could  be  taken 
in  hand  by  a  strict  political  economist,  and  if  she 
could  be  endowed  with  some  of  the  common  sense 
which  our  age  so  prudently  values,  might  be  con- 
vinced that  she  was  a  foolish  creature,  keeping 
absurdly  late  hours,  and  expending  a  most  un- 
reasonable amount  of  energy  on  sounds  which 
could  be  equally  well  produced  by  a  penny 
whistle.  But  if  an  individual  or  a  nation  gets 
into  a  material  frame  of  mind,  there  are  disasters 
ahead.  The  man  and  the  nation  may  live  for  a 
while  a  very  comfortable  and  well-ordered  life, 
do  excellent  work,  and  enjoy  a  well-earned  dinner 
at  the  end  of  the  day.    But  it  is  not  that  spirit 


428  Along  the  Road 

which  makes  a  nation,  or  keeps  it  strong.  What 
is  really  the  hopeful  sign  about  a  race  is  that  it 
enjoys  doing  fine,  unreasonable,  heroic  things,  not 
unattended  by  plenty  of  risk  and  discomfort, 
which  are  indeed  considerable  elements  in  the 
fun.  Schoolmaster  and  poet  alike  do  their  best 
work  if  they  can  inspire  and  stimulate  that  sort 
of  spirit;  and  if  at  the  same  time  they  can  show 
that  activity  is  best  enjoyed,  if  it  is  chivalrous 
and  tender-hearted  as  well,  and  that  it  is  on  the 
wrong  lines  if  it  consists  in  boisterous  and  in- 
considerate merriment,  and  amuses  itself  at  the 
expense  of  the  weak  and  frail.  The  hooliganism 
of  the  day  is  a  hopeful  sign,  because  it  means  an 
overflow  of  high  spirits ;  and  what  we  have  to  do 
is  to  turn  those  high  spirits  into  the  right  chan- 
nels, not  to  endeavour  to  suppress  and  eliminate 
them  altogether.  The  value  of  Tennyson's  most 
popular  work  is  that  it  upholds  the  knightly  ideal, 
with  plenty  of  hard  blows,  and  splintered  spears, 
side  by  side  with  a  generous  and  compassionate 
spirit.  It  is,  I  think,  a  sign  that  some  change 
is  passing  gradually  over  our  national  tempera- 
ment, that  the  spirit  of  the  time  is  somehow  alien 
to  poetry— that  great  poets  are  non-existent,  and 
that  the  reading  public  turns  away  from  poetry. 
But  I  think  that  the  imaginative  temper  of  the 
time  is  fed  by  romances;  and  so  far  from  think- 
ing it  a  sign  of  decadence  and  mental  decay  that 
such  a  cataract  of  novels  pours  from  the  press,  I 
believe  it  to  be  a  sign  of  the  existence  of  a  fresh 


The  Use  of  Poetry  429 

aud  childlike  spirit,  that  wants  to  be  told  stories, 
and  likes  to  lose  itself  in  the  thought  of  other 
lives  and  exciting  adventures.  I  believe  it  shows 
that  we  have  still  plenty  of  freshness  and  zest 
in  the  race,  and  I  should  not  in  the  least  welcome 
it  as  a  sign  of  grace  if  the  taste  for  novels  were 
to  l)e  succeeded  by  a  taste  for  handbooks  of 
political  economy  and  manuals  of  bookkeeping. 
Of  course,  one  wishes  people  to  be  serious  and 
sensible,  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  wish  them  to 
be  dull  and  prudish.  I  believe  myself  that  in 
many  ways  our  own  age  resembles  the  Elizabethan 
age,  and  that  there  is  an  abundance  of  the  adven- 
turous spirit  abroad.  I  do  not  at  all  wish  to 
see  Englishmen  prepared  to  work  twelve  hours  a 
day  on  low  wages,  and  not  to  need  any  sort  of 
amusement.  Such  a  time  as  the  present  has  its 
evils,  no  doubt,  but  a  nation  is  in  a  far  more 
hoj^eful  condition  when  it  has  plenty  of  high 
spirits  that  need  curbing,  than  when  it  is  sunk 
in  apathetic  diligence.  And  the  use  of  poetry  in 
the  best  and  widest  sense  is  to  keep  alive  that 
eager  and  generous  temi)er,  which  makes  a  nation 
into  a  race  of  kings  instead  of  a  race  of  slaves. 


WAR 

I  SAW  quoted  the  other  day,  in  a  review,  some  bits 
of  Mr.  Newbolt's  poetry,  which  lay  like  flowers  or 
crystals  on  the  page.  Mr.  Newbolt  is  a  true  lyrical 
poet,  always  and  invariably  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished and  melodious;  and  a  great  deal  more 
than  that!  There  is  a  lyric  on  a  stream,  which 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  purest  pieces  of  word- 
music  I  know,  like  the  liquid  discourse  of  a  flute, 
that  goes  and  returns  upon  itself.  And  he  is  a 
master,  too,  of  a  very  different  kind  of  music, 
which  stirs  the  heart  and  sets  the  blood  dancing, 
as  though  a  trumpet  uttered  with  all  its  might 
a  great  fanfare.  The  test  to  me  of  a  fine  lyric 
is  when  it  sends  a  physical  shiver  down  the  back, 
and  fills  the  eyes  with  sudden  tears;  and  this  is 
what  Drake's  Drum  does.  That  refrain  of  "  Cap- 
tain, art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?  "  is  a  stroke  of 
high  genius.  Mr.  Newbolt  and  Mr.  Kipling  are 
pre-eminent  among  our  poets  for  a  certain  fault- 
less emphasis  of  accent,  in  which  every  single 
syllable  has  its  value,  and  which  gives  one  the 
impression,  which  is  the  test  of  perfect  art,  that 
the  writers  are  making  the  words  do  exactly  as 
430 


War  431 

they  are  bid.  It  was  in  the  train  that  I  read 
the  article,  and  I  wished  I  had  a  volume  of  Mr. 
Xewbolt's  within  reach,  to  gladden  the  heart,  as 
all  true  poetry  does,  when  one  is  in  the  happy 
mood. 

Then  I  read  a  fine  grave  poem  called  Clifton 
Chapel,  addressed  to  a  son,  reminding  him  of 
what  his  father  had  thought  and  hoped  at  the 
old  school,  and  what  he,  too,  must  try  to  think 
and  hope.     I  read  on  till  I  came  to  the  lines : 

"  To  honour,  while  you  strike  him  down, 
The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes." 

I  dropped  the  book  and  sat  thinking.  One  does 
not  want  to  be  feeble-minded,  nor  what  is  called 
sentimental,  but  somehow  it  made  me  shudder. 
Ought  one  really  to  try  to  feel  that?  And  if  so, 
ought  one  not  also  to  feel  the  opposite? — 

"  To  honour,  while  he  strikes  you  down, 
The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes." 

Is  not  the  essence  of  the  triumphant  thought  in 
the  poet's  mind,  after  all,  the  fact  that  oneself 
should  be  victorious?  One  can  afford,  it  would 
seem,  to  honour  a  foe,  if  one  can  be  sure  of  lay- 
ing him  low.  But  why  touch  the  note  at  all? 
Is  one  bound  to  accept  the  fact  that  war  is  a 
noble  thing  in  itself?  Are  we  really  right  in 
thinking  that  combat  is  inseparable  from  the  life 
of  humanity?    All  depends,  it  seems  to  me,  on 


432  Along  the  Road 

the  motive  which  lies  behind  a  war.  In  the  line 
I  have  quoted  it  seems  to  be  taken  for  granted 
that  the  foe  himself  is  a  preux  chevalier,  a 
soldier  of  honour  and  courage,  a  noble  and  a 
gentle  knight.  If  war  is  made  for  the  sake  of 
righting  some  horrible  wrong,  of  setting  free  a 
country  from  cruel  and  barbarous  misuse  by 
tyrants  and  evil  governors,  then  it  is  a  thing  to 
be  proud  of,  if  it  leaves  a  legacy  of  peace.  But 
what  could  be  the  motive  of  a  contest  such  as 
is  here  indicated?  Some  aggression,  some  in- 
tention of  conquest,  some  sort  of  aggrandisement, 
some  sense  of  wounded  honour,  which  implies  a 
wrong  done  and  sustained?  Ought  one  really  to 
desire,  and  to  teach  one's  children  to  desire,  to 
meet  in  fight  some  man  of  as  high  courage  and 
honour  as  oneself,  and  to  leave  him,  for  all  his 
hopes  and  energies,  dead  upon  the  field?  Can 
one  look  upon  that  as  a  glorious  fact,  a  thing 
to  dwell  upon  with  satisfaction  in  quiet  moments, 
to  remember  how  our  adversary  lay  bleeding  at 
our  feet,  to  fire  our  sons  with  the  wish  to  do 
likewise? 

It  seems  to  me  a  very  strange  thing  that  one 
should  value  so  highly  the  priceless  privilege  of 
life,  should  feel  so  strongly  the  justice  of  doing 
a  murderer  to  death,  in  a  ghastly  kind  of 
pageant;  and  yet  that  one  should  be  able  to  be- 
lieve that  under  different  circumstances,  of  in- 
vasion or  aggression,  it  is  a  splendid  and  heroic 
thing  to  dismiss  a  fellow-creature  into  darkness ! 


War  433 

It  is  easy  enough  for  a  poet  to  adorn  his  tale, 
as  Tennyson  did  in  Maud,  with  the  thought  of 
a  nation,  sunk  in  commercial  materialism,  being 
set  all  aglow  by  the  pleasure  of  tearing  invaders 
limb  from  limb.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  war  is, 
after  all,  but  a  barbarous  and  horrible  convention, 
which  in  spite  of  all  that  Christianity  and  civilisa- 
tion can  do,  stands  out  a  blood-stained  and  a 
cruel  evil  among  our  wiser  and  more  temperate 
designs.  To  glorify  war  seems  to  me  but  the  un- 
chaining and  hounding  on  of  the  ferocious  beast 
that  lies  below  the  surface  in  most  of  us.  To 
condone  it  is  like  defending  the  institution  of 
slavery  on  the  ground  that  cruel  treatment  may 
develop  a  noble  endurance  in  the  downtrodden 
slave,  like  encouraging  bullying  in  schools  that 
the  bullied  may  learn  hardness  and  courage. 

I  think  that  we  ought  to  regard  war  as  a 
horrible  ultimate  possibility.  If  a  nation  loses 
its  head  with  greed  and  excitement,  and  invades 
a  peaceful  territory,  then  the  invaded  land  must 
appeal  to  force  and  sternly  repel  the  aggressor. 
But  think  of  such  wars  as  the  Napoleonic  wars! 
If  a  murderer  deserves  the  penalty  of  death  and 
shame,  if  he  is  thought  of  as  going  into  the 
presence  of  a  wrathful  God,  with  blood  upon  his 
hands,  what  of  Napoleon  himself,  who  poured  a 
cataract  of  the  best  and  strongest  young  lives 
of  his  own  countrymen  into  the  grave,  not  only 
with  unconcern  and  indifference,  but  amid  the 
applause  and  wonder  of  his  own  and  succeeding 


434  Along  the  Road 

generations?  And  for  what?  To  set  his  family 
upon  an  imperial  throne,  and  to  put  France  at 
the  head  of  a  European  empire.  There  was  not 
a  thought  of  helping  anyone  or  benefiting  any- 
one. Just  a  thirst  for  what  is  called  glory,  a 
determination  to  let  the  world  feel  the  weight 
of  one's  hand.  Surely  the  one  hope  of  the  world 
is  the  hope  of  living  life  in  peace  and  energy  and 
security,  in  toil  and  virtue?  To  give  oppor- 
tunities to  all,  to  protect  the  weak,  to  restrain 
the  cruel  and  selfish — that  is  the  aim.  And  yet, 
if  only  murder  be  practised  on  a  great  enough 
scale,  and  under  fixed  rules  of  combat,  it  is  to 
be  regarded  as  a  heroic  thing!  On  the  one  side, 
one  is  to  try  to  fight  the  ravages  of  disease  and 
calamity,  to  think  of  life  as  a  precious  thing  and 
a  rich  inheritance;  and,  on  the  other,  one  is  to 
sacrifice  the  best  young  blood  and  the  highest 
hopes  of  a  nation,  in  a  process  which  hampers 
and  penalises  the  prosperity  of  the  conquering 
nation  as  well  as  that  of  the  conquered.  Then 
there  is  all  the  ghastly  waste  of  human  toil  in 
preparing  armaments,  all  subtracted  from  the 
working  power  of  the  world.  It  is  not  as  though 
war  were  the  only  disciplinary  force  at  work 
among  us.  The  conquest  of  Nature,  the  subduing 
of  the  forces  of  the  world,  the  replenishing  of  the 
earth,  can  make  and  keep  men  strong  and  virile 
enough. 

I  had  an  interview  in  the  sad  days  of  the  Boer 
War  with  a  widow  who  had  given  two  sons  to 


War  435 

the  service  of  the  country.  They  were  young  men 
of  the  finest  promise — strong,  kindly,  fair-minded, 
honourable.  One  had  died,  after  horrible  suffer- 
ing, of  wounds  received  in  action ;  one  had  died 
of  enteric  in  a  fteld-hospital.  The  mother  was 
full  of  noble  and  unmurmuring  resignation;  but 
it  made  me  shudder  to  think  that  these  two  young 
men,  who  might  have  lived  long  and  valued  lives, 
the  kindly  fathers  of  strong  children,  should  thus, 
and  for  such  ends  as  these,  have  been  lost  to  the 
earth. 

People  used  to  feel  the  same  approval  about 
duelling.  If  a  man's  honour  was  insulted,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  fight,  and  the  recipient 
of  the  insult  might  lose  his  life  as  easily  as  the 
insulter.  The  thing  now  seems  too  idiotic  for 
words,  and  who  can  say  that  our  courage  has 
abated  in  consequence  of  the  abolition  of  duelling? 

I  think  it  is  probable  that  in  the  days  to  come 
men  will  think  with  a  bewildered  compassion  of 
the  time  when  war  was  an  accepted  practice. 
They  will  say  to  themselves  that  it  is  incredible 
that  men  should  ever  have  thought  it  a  noble 
thing  to  let  the  brute  passions  loose.  They  will 
see  that  the  gift  of  God  is  life  and  health  and 
happy  labour  and  joyful  union;  and  that  men 
should  have  thought  it  admirable  to  spill  each 
other^s  blood  for  vainglory  and  for  passion  and 
for  greed,  will  seem  an  inconceivable  and  an 
intolerable  thing. 

It  is  not  that  I  should  wish  to  deter  men  from 


436  Along  the  Road 

risking  their  lives  for  a  generous  or  a  daring 
cause.  I  do  not  feel  any  indignation  against 
explorers  or  aviators  or  mountain-climbers  or 
mariners,  for  being  willing  to  take  their  lives 
in  their  hands.  That  is  a  noble  spirit  enough. 
A  man's  life  is  his  own;  he  must  not  take  it  out 
of  cowardice  or  despair,  but  he  may  risk  it  for 
an  achievement  if  he  will.  But  to  hold  it  glorious 
to  risk  it  in  the  mere  taking  of  other  lives  seems 
to  me  a  brutal  and  a  barbarous  thing;  and  what 
makes  it  baser  still  is  that  ultimately,  as  a 
rule,  it  is  a  mere  question  of  property  which  is 
involved. 

Suppose  that  we  imagine  two  strong  nations, 
suffering  from  a  great  pressure  of  over-popula- 
tion, in  a  large  island,  with  no  outlet.  Emigra- 
tion must,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  be 
considered  impossible.  The  strange  thing  is  that, 
Avith  our  present  ideas  about  war,  we  imagine 
that  if  the  two  governments  conferred  together, 
and  decided  that  they  would  each  put  to  death 
all  the  weakly  and  tainted  and  broken  lives,  that 
would  be  thought  a  ghastly  and  revolting  pro- 
cedure. And  yet  we  should,  on  the  whole,  ap- 
prove of  the  two  nations  going  to  war,  and 
sacrificing  thousands  of  the  best  and  most  vigor- 
ous lives  in  the  process,  leaving  untouched  all  the 
weakly  and  ineffective  stock  of  the  nations.  That 
is  a  very  bewildering  thought,  and  I  find  it  im- 
possible to  disentangle  it. 

What  is  almost  as  bewildering  is  to  think  of 


^^'a^  437 

the  things  that  occurred  iu  the  Boer  War,  when 
on  a  night  before  a  battle,  the  two  forces  met  in 
friendly  good-humour  beside  their  entrenchments, 
sang  their  songs,  jested  and  laughed,  and  even 
passed  refreshments  across  to  each  other  on  bayo- 
net points,  all  the  time  quite  prepared  on  the 
next  day  to  kill  as  many  of  the  opposing  force 
as  they  could. 

Does  it  not  look  as  though  we  were  under  some 
strange  and  evil  enchantment  in  the  matter?  We 
are  trying,  many  of  us,  to  solve  the  constructive 
problem,  we  are  trying  to  accommodate  our  dif- 
ferences, to  educate,  to  civilise,  to  encourage 
labour  and  order  and  peace;  and  yet  in  the  back 
of  our  minds  lies  the  fixed  determination  that  if 
a  quarrel  is  provoked,  we  will  devastate  as  far  as 
we  can  each  other's  homes  and  circles;  and  with 
this  horrible  fact  before  us,  that  a  war  skims,  so 
to  sf)eak,  the  very  cream  of  humanity,  and  sweeps 
away,  not  the  intemperate  and  the  feeble-minded 
and  the  invalided,  but  the  lusty  and  cheerful  and 
strong. 

The  truth  is  that  we  do  not  yet  live  by  reason, 
but  by  instinct.  When  our  passions  rise  they 
carry  us  off  our  feet.  But  the  misery  is  that 
those  men  who  have  the  vision — the  poets  and 
the  preachers  and  the  prophets — are  drawn  away 
by  the  fury  and  the  excitement  and  the  intoxica- 
tion of  the  fight  and  the  fray,  into  thinking  and 
s[)eaking  of  war  as  though  it  had  something 
Divine  and  noble  about  it,  instead  of  its  being, 


438  Along  the  Road 

as  it  is,  the  boisterous  passion  of  the  animal 
within  us,  the  instinct  to  kick  and  bite  and  tear, 
to  see  blood  flow  and  limbs  writhe,  and  to  rejoice 
with  demoniacal  gusto  in  the  shameful  havoc  that 
we  have  it  in  our  power  to  do. 


ON  MAKING  FRIENDS 

Friendship  is  one  of  the  cheapest  and  most 
accessible  of  pleasnres ;  it  requires  no  outlay,  and 
no  very  serious  expenditure  of  time  or  trouble. 
Tt  is  quite  easy  to  make  friends,  if  one  wants  to; 
and  in  the  second  place,  just  as  poetry  can  be 
written  while  one  is  weaving  tapestry,  so  friend- 
ships can  be  made,  and  the  best  friendships  are 
often  made,  while  one  is  doing  something  else. 
One  can  make  friends  while  one  works,  travels, 
eats,  walks.  I  am  not  now  speaking  of  mere 
pleasant  acquaintances,  but  the  friendships  where 
each  friend  feels  a  certain  need  for  the  other, 
the  friendships  where  one  desires  to  compare  ideas 
and  experiences,  where  it  is  a  pleasure  to  agree, 
because  it  is  so  delightful  to  find  that  one's  friend 
thinks  the  same  as  oneself,  and  an  even  greater 
pleasure  to  differ,  because  the  contrast  is  so 
wonderful  and  interesting.  Of  course,  one  can- 
not hope  to  have  an  indefinite  number  of  great 
friends.  The  laws  of  time  and  space  intervene, 
because  if  one  is  always  plunging  into  new  friend- 
ships, it  is  difficult  to  keep  up  the  old.  And  then, 
too,  a  certain  touch  of  jealousy  is  apt  to  creep 
439 


440  Along  the  Road 

in.  There  is  surely  no  greater  pleasure  in  the 
Avorld  than  to  feel  that  one  is  needed,  welcomed, 
missed,  and  loved ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  acquiesce, 
with  perfect  generosity  and  good-humour,  if  one 
feels  that  someone  else  is  more  valued  and  needed 
than  oneself.  But  it  is  possible,  foHunately,  to 
reach  a  point  of  friendship  with  another  when 
one  knows  that  there  can  never  be  any  suspicion 
or  jealousy  or  misunderstanding  again;  and  that 
even  if  one  does  not  see  the  friend  or  hear  from 
him,  yet  that  one  will  find  him  exactly  the  same, 
and  take  up  the  old  relation  exactly  where  it  was 
suspended. 

It  is  surely  one  of  the  best  and  simplest  pleas- 
ures in  the  world,  when  one  realises  that  there 
has  sprung  up,  one  does  not  know  how  or  when,  a 
sense  of  mutual  interest  and  confidence  and  affec- 
tion between  oneself  and  another.  It  betrays  itself 
by  a  glance,  a  gesture,  a  word,  and  one  becomes 
aware  that  there  is  a  secret  bond,  which  cannot 
exactly  be  defined  or  analysed,  between  oneself 
and  another — "  because  it  was  me,  because  it  was 
you,"  as  the  old  French  writer  said.  I  am  not 
now  speaking  of  the  further  and  more  mysterious 
process  which  mortals  call  falling  in  love,  because 
that  is  a  wholly  different  emotion,  which  is  com- 
plicated by  fiery  and  agitating  impulses;  but 
what  I  mean  is  a  tranquil  and  contented  emo- 
tion, of  which  the  basis  is  a  certain  trust.  We 
inherit  no  doubt  from  our  palaeolithic  ancestors 
a  distinct  combativeness,  a  tendency  to  suspect 


On  Making  Friends  441 

strangers,  to  growl  aiid  bristle  like  a  dog.  This 
translates  itself  in  modern  life  into  a  tendency 
to  be  on  one's  guard  and  not  to  give  oneself  away. 
Knt  friendship  comes  when  one  can  feel:  "  AVell, 
whatever  happens,  So-and-so  is  on  my  side.  I 
can  say  what  I  think  to  him,  and  I  shall  not 
be  misunderstood ;  we  may  disagree,  but  it  will  be 
without  hostility,  and  our  criticisms  will  not  be 
resented.  If  I  am  misrepresented  by  other  people, 
he  will  be  sure  to  stick  up  for  me;  if  I  want  help 
and  advice,  he  will  give  it  me,  and  what  a  pleasure 
it  will  be  if  there  is  anything  which  I  can  do 
for  him ! " 

Of  course,  when  I  said  that  the  process  of 
making  friends  is  easy,  T  do  not  forget  that  it 
is  much  easier  for  some  j)eople  than  for  others. 
1  know  two  or  three  men,  and  they  are  very 
])athetic  figures,  who  desire  friendship  above 
everything,  and  need  it,  too,  and  who  yet  find  it 
extraordinarily  difficult  to  make  friends.  They 
are  formidable,  or  tactless;  they  say  the  right 
thing  to  the  wrong  person,  or  the  wrong  thing 
to  the  right  person.  They  are  brilliant  when 
they  ought  to  be  simple,  and  voluble  when  they 
ought  to  be  quiet.  They  make  too  much  fuss 
about  it,  and  friendship  ought  to  come  gradually 
and  insensibly.  One  can't  conquer  people  or  take 
them  by  storm.  One  may  get  admiration  by 
showing  off,  but  one  cannot  get  affection ;  and 
the  worst  of  people  who  have  a  great  desire  to 
make  friends  is  that  it  tends  to  make  them  wish 


442.  Along  the  Road 

to  show  off,  to  dazzle,  and  attract.  We  English 
are  curious  people;  we  are  intensely  emotional 
and  sentimental,  though  we  are  not  always 
credited  with  it  by  foreigners;  we  are  supposed 
to  be  haughty,  insular,  dull  as  our  skies  and 
treacherous  as  our  climate.  Perfidious  Albion! 
The  one  thing  we  pride  ourselves  upon  is  our 
blunt  and  transparent  honesty,  and  yet  we  are 
believed  in  Europe  to  be  the  most  faithless  of 
the  nations.  We  say  that  the  Englishman's  word 
is  as  good  as  his  bond;  and  with  this  foreigners 
agree,  because  they  believe  that  both  are  frauds; 
that  our  word  is  deceptive,  and  our  bond  is  not 
worth  the  paper  it  is  written  on.  Yet  in  our 
own  friendships  we  are,  I  believe,  reliable,  faith- 
ful, slow  to  take  offence,  quick  to  make  allowance, 
ready  to  forgive  and  able  to  forget. 

But  though  I  am  sure  that  English  people  have 
rather  a  genius  for  friendship,  it  is  curious  how 
often  it  is  confined  to  our  earlier  years.  School 
and  college  friendships  sometimes  last  through 
life,  and  are  often  really  romantic  relations;  but 
as  we  get  older  we  mostly  lose  the  power.  We 
have  made  up  our  bundle  of  preferences,  and  it 
is  tiresome  to  add  to  them.  I  have  often  thought 
how  unnecessarily  cautious  people  get  in  England 
as  they  grow  older.  I  find  myself  often  sitting 
next  some  one  at  dinner,  and  saying  to  myself: 
**  I  am  sure  I  should  like  you  and  trust  you,  if 
only  you  would  say  what  you  really  think,  and 
not  keep  lurking  behind  a  fence  of  conventional 


On  Making  Friends  443 

opinions.  Why  is  it  necessar}'  for  us  to  talk 
al)out  tilings  in  which  we  neither  of  lis  feel  the 
smallest  interest?  We  have  both  of  us  experi- 
ences, views,  ideas.  Why  cannot  we  put  them 
into  words?  Why  must  we  play  this  tiresome 
kind  of  lawn-tennis,  you  serving  a  statement,  and 
I  feebly  returning  it?"  I  sometimes  think  that 
this  apparent  want  of  frankness,  this  shrinking 
from  reality  is  what  makes  us  seem  to  foreigners 
to  be  diplomatic  when  we  are  really  only  shy. 
Yet  there  are  finer  things  said  about  friends  and 
friendships  in  English  poetry  and  prose  than  any- 
where else  that  I  know  of,  which  show  one  that 
whatever  we  may  say  or  pretend  to  think  about 
emotion,  the  thing  is  there,  and  glowing  with  a 
heart  of  fire. 

Well,  then,  suppose  the  process  over,  the  fencing 
done,  the  conventional  diplomacies  put  away,  the 
friend  made  and  trusted  and  loved,  what  do  we 
expect  to  feel  and  to  give  and  to  receive? 

First  of  all,  let  me  respectfully  say,  neither  to 
tell  our  friend  of  his  faults  nor  to  be  told  of  our 
own  I  That  may  be  set  aside  except  in  urgent 
necessity.  It  may  be  a  sad  and  reluctant  duty, 
once  in  a  lifetime,  to  tell  a  friend  of  some  fault 
of  which  he  is  unconscious,  and  which  is  really 
doing  him  harm.  But  as  a  rule  we  know  our 
own  faults  better  than  anyone  else  I  Still  less 
do  we  expect  a  constant  parade  of  sentiment,  a 
waving  of  the  banners  and  a  blowing  of  the 
trumpets  of  emotion.     We  have  done  with  all 


444  Along  the  Road 

that  too,  except,  perhaps,  in  a  happy  instant, 
when  we  must  express  our  gratitude  and  joy. 
What  we  expect  and  what  we  get  is  the  test  of 
all  relationships,  when  we  can  show  our  inmost 
mind  without  apology  or  fear;  when  there  is  no 
need  to  avoid  this  subject  or  that,  but  when  we 
can  talk  plainly  and  without  affectation  of  what 
interests,  amuses,  pleases,  vexes,  distresses,  moves 
us,  without  any  thought  of  wanting  to  produce 
an  effect,  or  to  impress  or  win;  and  we  can  listen, 
too,  to  our  friend's  talk  without  either  patience 
or  impatience.  It  is  neither  a  sentimental  busi- 
ness nor  an  intellectual  business ;  it  is  simply  the 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  here  are  two  spirits 
strangely  like,  strangely  unlike,  bound  on  the 
same  pilgrimage,  without  secrets  from  each  other, 
only  happy  in  companionship,  and  believing  that 
it  does  not  end  here,  or  now,  or  anywhere. 

There  is  nothing  finer  or  more  beautiful  in  the 
world  than  a  man  or  woman  who  can  go  through 
life  thus,  proffering  to  others  that  kind  of  faith 
and  trust  and  fellowship,  not  for  the  sake  of 
selfish  convenience  or  to  beguile  a  tiresome  hour, 
but  out  of  sweetness  and  kindness  and  goodwill 
and  trustfulness.  I  have  known  some  few  such, 
and  I  consider  it  the  great  blessing  of  my  life. 
They  are  as  often  as  not  wholly  unconscious  of 
their  great  gift,  and  they  believe  others  to  be  as 
guileless,  as  frank,  and  as  kindly  as  themselves, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  their  own  goodness 
shines  like  the  sun  on  all  round  them,  making 


On  Making  Friends  445 

the  coldest  heart  warm  for  a  while.  Of  course, 
we  cannot  all  be  like  that,  because  there  comes 
into  it  the  mysterious  force  called  charm,  which 
makes  the  word  and  the  gesture  and  the  smile 
of  some  lieople  so  attractive  and  so  beautiful; 
but  we  can  avoid  the  things  that  hold  us  back 
from  others — the  grim  statement,  the  peremptory 
judgment,  the  cheap  sneer,  the  suspicious  caution ; 
if  we  cannot  all  be  warm-hearted  and  generous, 
we  need  none  of  us  be  captious,  irritable,  prosy, 
censorious.  *'  I  can't  make  out  why  people  don't 
like  me,"  said  a  peevish  and  cynical  man  to  the 
one  friend  he  had  on  earth.  It  was  no  time  for 
compliments,  and  the  friend,  with  a  smile,  said 
*  (^an't  you?"  There  was  a  silence,  and  then 
the  other  said,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  "  Yes, 
I  can ! " 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION 

There  is  nothing  which  has  so  completely  altered 
in  the  course  of  the  last  fifty  years,  and  altered, 
in  my  belief,  so  wholly  and  entirely  for  the  better, 
as  the  method  of  bringing  up  children.  No  doubt 
parents  were  always  fond  of  their  children,  and 
proud  of  them  for  not  very  demonstrable  reasons. 
But  fifty  years  ago  children  w^ere  much  more 
strictly  handled,  repressed,  kept  out  of  sight,  and 
generally  dragooned,  than  is  at  all  the  case  now. 
They  were  paraded,  of  course,  neatly  brushed  and 
washed  and  habited,  on  fit  occasions — at  luncheon, 
and  perhaps  before  dinner;  but  they  were  ex- 
pected to  hold  their  tongues,  to  eat  what  was 
put  before  them;  their  opinions  were  not  asked, 
and  if  expressed,  were  firmly  snubbed.  They  were 
left  much  more  to  themselves,  and  had  to  rule 
their  own  community  with  superficial  decorum. 
The  result  of  this  was  that,  in  the  old  books,  chil- 
dren were  represented  as  a  species  of  charming 
hooligan.  They  always  "  got  into  mischief  ^'  if  they 
could,  and  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  savagery  if 
they  were  not  under  control.  But  now  the  con- 
trast between,  so  to  speak,  the  public  and  the 

446 


The  Younger  Generation       447 

private  life  of  children  is  not  nearly  so  much 
marked.  They  live  much  more  with  their  elders, 
and  being  treated  as  reasonable  members  of  so- 
ciety, they  actually  like,  and,  Indeed,  are  rather 
dei>endent  upon,  their  older  friends,  instead  of 
being  frankly  bored  by  them.  Of  course,  one 
always  knew  as  a  child  that  elder  people,  if  they 
only  would  play,  were  the  best  of  playmates. 
They  were  stronger,  fairer,  more  inventive.  But 
tliey  often  would  not  play.  They  were  "  busy," 
and  a  kind  of  dull  grimness  fell  upon  them 
suddenly,  and  for  no  apparent  reason. 

But  now  children  are  apt  to  pervade  a  house, 
to  take  their  elders  captive,  to  demand  co-opera- 
tion and  sympathy.  The  day  is  much  more  laid 
out  with  reference  to  them,  and  they  have  a  social 
part  to  play.  It  is  just  the  same  at  private 
schools.  I  was  myself  at  a  big  private  school 
of  the  hardier  sort.  The  tone  was  wholesome 
and  kindly;  but  we  were  left  very  much  to  our- 
selves, and  had  to  make  our  own  arrangements. 
If  we  were  simply  too  ill  to  get  along,  we  went 
reluctantly  to  the  matron.  But  now  the  assistant- 
masters  play  with  the  boys,  talk  to  them,  see 
that  they  change  their  boots,  mother  them  from 
morning  to  night. 

The  old  ideal  was  a  Spartan  one;  the  design 
was  to  get  rid  of  softness,  at  the  expense,  no 
doubt,  of  the  frail  and  timid  and  delicate,  to 
make  boys  independent  by  leaving  them  to  find 
out  what  their  duties  were,  and  jni wishing  them 


448  Along  the  Road 

severely  if  they  were  unbusinesslike.  Boys  cer- 
tainly grew  older  and  harder  more  quickly,  while 
the  gentler  natures  had  very  often  rather  a  bad 
time  of  it. 

Again,  look  at  the  difference  in  the  position  of 
the  governess.  The  typical  old-fashioned  govern- 
ess of  the  story-book  was  shy,  plain,  and  prim. 
If  her  charges  were  unruly,  she  had  to  fight  as 
with  beasts  at  Ephesus.  She  came  to  dinner  if 
it  was  convenient,  the  servants  were  rude  to  her, 
the  mistress  of  the  house  was  kind  but  per- 
emptory. Now,  on  the  contrary,  one  sees  a  per- 
fectly-appointed and  self-possessed  young  lady, 
the  social  equal  of  her  employers,  and  generally 
much  better  educated.  She  can  play  games,  she 
can  make  jokes,  and  if  she  gets  on  well  with  the 
children,  she  ends  by  ruling  the  whole  household. 
Woe  betide  the  servant  who  is  rude  to  her;  and 
as  for  the  children,  they  adore  her,  and  look  upon 
her  as  a  sort  of  fairy  godmother,  standing  be- 
tween them  and  the  wrath  of  the  powers  that 
be. 

The  change  in  the  whole  situation  was,  of 
course,  a  hazardous  experiment;  but  it  came  by 
nature,  it  was  not  deliberately  introduced.  It 
was  hardly  possible  to  say  for  certain,  until 
lately,  whether  the  new  regime  was  going  to  be 
a  success.  Was  it  going  to  end  in  making  the 
children  effeminate,  selfish,  peevish,  helpless,  in- 
considerate? Was  it  all  a  sign  of  decadence  and 
sentimentality  ? 


The  Younger  Generation       449 

It  is  possible  now  to  auswer  these  questions 
with  a  decided  negative.  The  results  have  been, 
so  far  as  one  can  see,  wholly  good.  The  twenty 
years  of  my  own  professional  life  as  a  school- 
master constituted  a  crucial  period.  The  boys 
who  came  to  Eton  at  that  date  were  boys  edu- 
cated on  the  new  plan.  I  have  not  the  smallest 
doubt  that  they  were  incomparably  nicer,  kinder, 
more  humane,  more  considerate,  more  reasonable, 
and  not  in  the  least  less  active,  or  spirited,  or 
conscientious,  than  the  boys  of  my  own  school- 
days. Of  course,  they  were  not  perfect.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  the  native  savage  about  the 
growing  boy.  lie  is  self-absorbed,  messy,  greedy, 
unreflective,  conventional.  But  he  comes  to  a 
public  school  expecting  to  find  other  boys  kindly 
and  friendly;  he  no  longer  looks  upon  the  au- 
thorities as  his  natural  enemies.  He  anticipates 
that  even  if  they  are  strict  and  quick-tempered, 
they  will,  probably,  take  a  human  interest  in  him, 
and  will  not  be  cruel  or  malicious.  He  finds  the 
path  smoothed  for  him  from  the  outset.  Bully- 
ing has  practically  disappeared,  corporal  punish- 
ment is  fast  becoming  extinct,  work  that  a  boy 
cannot  understand  is  explained  to  him.  His  rea- 
sons are  no  longer  treated  as  excuses.  His  rights 
in  the  matter  of  exercise  are  safeguarded.  His 
health  is  looked  after  rationally.  There  is  plenty 
of  discipline;  but  the  whole  life  is  healthier, 
happier,  more  humane;  and  there  is  far  less  of 
the  vague  sense  of  alarm,  of  impending  cata- 
39 


450  Along  the  Road 

strophe  in  the  background,  than  used  to  be  the 
case  even  in  my  own  schooldays. 

I  cannot  see  any  point  upon  which  the  lauda- 
tor temporis  act  I  can  lay  his  finger  and  say  that 
things  have  gone  downhill.  Of  course,  there  are 
plenty  of  tiresome  and  stupid  pessimists  about, 
who  utter  absurd  grumbles  and  diatribes  about 
the  luxury  and  effeminacy  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion; but  with  every  wish  to  encourage  frank 
criticism  and  to  accept  definite  evidence,  I  can- 
not see  the  smallest  sign  of  deterioration.  When 
our  boys  had  to  go  out  and  fight  in  the  Boer 
War,  they  went  and  roughed  it  with  a  keenness, 
a  gaiety,  and  a  courage  which  was  patent  and 
undeniable.  And  now  that  I  have  an  opportunity 
of  observing  the  younger  generation  up  at  the 
University,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  net  gain  is 
simply  incontestable.  I  think  that  undergradu- 
ates seem  in  some  ways  younger  than  they 
were,  and  there  is  a  conventional  respect  for 
athletics  which  is  tiresome,  but  which  stands  for 
a  w^holesome  love  of  physical  activity  and  the  open 
air  which  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  diminished. 

The  other  day  an  old  friend  of  mine  came  to 
stay  at  Cambridge;  his  name  was  put  down  at 
the  Union,  and  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
there.  He  said  to  me  that  he  had  two  criticisms 
to  make — that  the  young  men  were  very  badly 
dressed,  and  that  they  were  extraordinarily  polite 
and  kind  to  him.  "  Why,"  he  said,  "  if  I  want 
a  book  or  a  paper,  or  if  I  wish  to  be  shown  my 


The  Younger  Generation       451 

way  about,  any  young  man  whom  I  ask  wants  to 
go  and  fetcli  the  book  or  paper  for  me,  or  insists 
on  personally  conducting  me  round.  I  am  sure," 
he  added,  "  that  in  my  time  we  should  have  con- 
sidered an  elderly  clergyman,  who  infested  the 
Union,  as  a  bore,  and  we  should  have  been  very 
short  with  him." 

As  far  as  the  bad  dressing  goes,  I  fear  I  am 
wholly  on  the  side  of  the  undergraduate.  I 
agree  with  Solon,  who  legislated  against  expen- 
sive dress,  saying  that  rich  and  poor  ought  all 
to  be  dressed  alike.  The  present  tradition  of 
dress  is  simple,  comfortable,  healthy,  and  cheap; 
and  the  undergraduate  is  quite  capable  of  turn- 
ing out  very  smart  upon  a  state  occasion.  As 
for  his  increased  courtesy  and  kindness,  it  is 
perfectly  true,  and  an  immense  improvement  upon 
the  rougher  and  more  independent  manners  of 
my  own  day. 

The  point  is,  I  think,  to  bring  up  children  to 
be  happy.  Of  course,  they  must  be  obedient,  and 
conscientious.  But  children  only  want  a  motive, 
and  there  is  far  more  potent  a  force  at  work  if 
they  learn  to  do  their  duty  for  the  sake  of  those 
whom  they  love,  and  because  they  love  them,  than 
because  of  an  abstract  and  unintelligible  code  of 
rules.  The  aim  is  to  get  them  somehow  habitu- 
ated to  right  conduct,  and  the  simpler  and 
more  direct  the  motive  the  better.  Then,  too,  one 
wants  children  to  find  the  world  a  friendly  and 
a  kindly  place,  and  to  feel  themselves  welcome 


452  Along  the  Road 

in  it.  There  are  plenty  of  hard,  sorrowful,  and 
dreadful  things  waiting  for  them,  which  no  one 
can  escape.  But  we  need  not  add  to  those  terrors 
the  terrors  of  harshness  and  unkindness  at  the 
outset.  One  does  not  want  to  make  people  stoical 
and  cynical;  one  wants  to  make  them  brave  and 
affectionate.  The  bravery  that  comes  of  affection 
is  a  far  better  thing  than  the  stoicism  which 
comes  of  cynicism.  One  of  my  own  terrors  as  a 
child  and  schoolboy  was  the  fear  of  some  penalty 
falling  on  me  out  of  the  blue  for  some  transgres- 
sion that  I  had  not  understood  nor  intended. 
This  was  not  a  fear  of  justice,  but  a  fear  of 
unprovoked  calamity,  and  I  cannot  see  that  it 
did  me  any  good  or  improved  my  outlook.  One 
wants  to  encourage  children  to  do  what  is  right, 
not  to  frighten  them  into  it.  There  is  a  reason- 
able fear  of  the  consequences  of  ill-doing  which 
is  a  very  different  thing  from  the  inconsequent 
terror  of  undeserved  affliction. 

I  will  go  a  step  further,  and  say  that  the  boys 
among  my  own  pupils  who  turned  out  just  what 
one  would  wish  boys  to  be — manly,  simple,  keen, 
and  kind — were  boys  of  nice  and  wholesome  dis- 
positions who  had  been  rather  spoilt  at  home. 
Of  course,  it  is  not  safe  to  spoil  children,  because 
one  cannot  be  sure  that  there  is  the  nice  dispo- 
sition behind;  but  if  a  boy  is  right-minded  and 
sensible,  a  little  spoiling  does  him  no  harm. 
"Spoiling"  is  not  the  right  word  quite,  but  I 
can  find  no  other — and  it  is  exactly  what  the 


The  Younger  Generation       453 

gruff  and  grim  critic  would  call  spoiling.  The 
sort  of  thing  I  mean  is  giving  the  children  a 
good  deal  of  simple  pleasure,  indulging  them  in 
reasonable  ways,  letting  them  choose,  in  a  general 
way,  what  they  will  do  to  amuse  themselves,  what 
they  will  eat  and  wear;  and  letting  them  see  quite 
l)lainly  that  their  parents  love  them,  and  desire 
their  company,  and  want  them  to  be  hai)py.  That 
concealment  of  affection  which  used  to  be  con- 
sidered wholesome  is  a  mistake.  The  result  was, 
on  the  boys  of  whom  I  am  sjxiaking,  that  they 
in  turn  adored  their  parents,  wanted  to  be  with 
them,  and  learned  to  want  them  to  be  hai>]>y. 
And  thus  these  boys  got  into  the  way  of  being 
considerate,  kind  to  their  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  perfectly  sure  that  they  were  not  in  the  way, 
but  that  the  world  was  peopled  with  affectionate 
and  reasonable  persons.  The  result  with  such 
boys  was  simply  thus:  that  if  one  had  to  enforce 
discipline  with  them,  and  was  content  to  explain 
the  reason  for  it,  they  acquiesced  willingly  and 
graciously;  while  the  wish  not  to  distress  or 
grieve  their  parents  in  any  way  was  simply 
supreme.  I  am  not  pleading  for  a  luxurious, 
easy-going,  pleasure-loving  kind  of  education  at 
all.  I  think  that  there  ought  to  be  a  very  strict 
code  of  perfectly  obvious  discipline  behind,  but 
not  mechanical  discipline.  For  if  children  know 
that  they  are  loved,  they  do  obey  orders,  and 
obey  them  willingly;  and  a  very  little  willing 
obedience  takes  a  child  a  long  way  further  along 


454  Along  the  Road 

the  right  road  than  any  amount  of  rebellious 
obedience. 

Whether  we  like  it  or  not,  there  is  no  going 
back;  and  I  for  one  have  no  wish  to  go  back. 
What  we  need  in  this,  as  in  many  other  directions, 
is  more  frankness  and  sincerity.  The  old  idea 
was  that  children  were  to  be  taught  their  place, 
and  the  result  was  that  they  were  not  taught 
their  place  at  all.  They  occupied,  then  as  now, 
a  foremost  place  in  their  parents'  hearts  and 
minds;  and  thej  were  often  kept  deliberately 
ignorant  of  this,  and  led  rather  to  suppose  that 
they  were  troublesome  little  creatures,  who  were 
rather  in  the  way  than  otherwise.  It  often  hap- 
pened, later  in  life,  that  a  boy  found  out,  by 
falling  into  disgrace,  the  depth  of  unknown  affec- 
tion that  had  surrounded  him;  if  he  had  known, 
it  before,  it  would  have  been  an  additional  mo- 
tive to  do  nothing  that  would  cause  pain  and 
grief  to  those  who  loved  him. 

I  remember  well  hearing  my  father,  late  in  his 
life,  deplore  the  fact  that  he  liad  thought  it  right 
to  be  so  strict  a  schoolmaster.  "  If  I  could  have 
it  all  over  again,"  he  said,  "  I  would  try  to  drive 
less  and  to  lead  more.  Driving,'-  he  added,  "  gets 
one  quickly  past  the  immediate  obstacle,  but  that 
is  not  the  point;  the  real  aim  ought  to  be  to 
develop  character,  and  that  can  only  be  done  by 
leading." 


READING 

I  SUPPOSE  it  is  because  writing  books  is  known  to 
be  my  trade  that  strangers  whom  I  meet,  often, 
out  of  courtesy  and  kindness  of  course,  speak  to 
me  about  books.  And  I  suppose  that  it  is  from 
some  lack  of  courtesy  and  kindness  that  T  often 
find  it  so  difTicult  to  do  my  part,  to  make  due 
responses  to  the  friendly  versicles.  It  is  held  by 
most  people  that  anyone  who  reads  books  can 
talk  about  them,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  though 
most  of  the  people  I  know  read  books,  very  few 
indeed  can  talk  about  them.  Books,  pictures, 
music,  scenery,  and  people  are  all  difficult  things 
to  talk  about,  because  they  are  not  wholly  definite 
and  tangible  things,  but  depend  so  enormously 
for  their  value  upon  something  in  the  mind  and 
heart  of  the  persons  who  read,  see,  hear,  and 
observe  them. 

Just  as  certain  chemicals  will  remain  quiescent 
if  they  are  mixed  with  one  set  of  substances,  but 
if  they  are  mixed  with  another  set  they  rise  in 
foam  and  vaiK)ur,  so  a  book  requires  to  be  mixed 
with  something  in  the  soul  of  the  reader,  before 
there  is  any  motion  or  energy  put  forth.  Even 
455 


456  Along  the  Road 

the  people  who  feel  a  book  cannot  always  talk 
about  it.  But  at  the  least  a  book  must  be  read 
with  a  certain  critical  apprehension  to  be  worth 
anything,  and  not  in  obedience  to  a  fashion,  or 
a  review,  or  a  friend's  recommendation.  To  read 
a  book,  in  my  own  case,  is  always  a  sort  of  com- 
bat, in  which  I  ask  myself  whether  the  author  is 
going  to  overcome  me,  and  persuade  me,  and  con- 
vince me,  or  even  vex  me.  And  the  whole  point 
about  a  book  is  not  whether  it  is  brilliant,  or 
well  arranged,  or  well  written,  but  whether  it  has 
a  real  life  of  its  own.  It  need  not  necessarily 
be  like  life.  The  novels  of  Dickens  are  not  in 
the  least  like  life,  but  they  have  an  overpowering 
life  of  their  own.  The  difference  between  books — 
I  am  speaking  now  mainly  of  fiction — is  whether 
you  say,  "  That  could  not  have  happened — that 
is  untrue  to  life,"  or  whether  you  say,  "  That  is 
not  at  all  like  my  experience  of  life,  but  it  exists 
and  lives."  Many  people  are,  I  think,  too  defer- 
ential to  books,  and  if  books  are  well  written 
and  have  a  well-known  name  on  the  title-page, 
many  readers  will  accept  them  as  good  and  bow 
down  before  them.  I  could  name  authors,  though 
I  will  not,  who  began  by  writing  a  good  book, 
and  made  a  name  by  it,  who  have  never  written 
anything  else  worth  reading.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
same  book  again,  with  different  names  and  places ; 
and  sometimes  it  becomes  a  mere  mechanical  busi- 
ness, and  the  author  does  not  pour  his  mind  and 
heart  into  his  books  any  more.     I  do  not  myself 


Reading  457 

think  that  it  is  of  any  use  to  read  a  book  in  a 
deferential  spirit.  The  writer's  business  is  to  lay 
you  flat  if  he  can,  to  make  you  feel  the  active 
presence  of  forces  and  influences,  to  rouse,  startle, 
interest,  amuse,  satisfy. 

I  am  sure  that  the  advantages  and  benefits  of 
reading  are  greatly  exaggerated.  It  is  an  in- 
nocent way  of  passing  time,  of  course,  but  the 
time  that  we  pass  is  not  worth  comparing  to  the 
time  that  we  use;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  even 
wasting  time  may  not  be  better  than  merely  pass- 
ing it,  because  there  is  some  spirit  about  that. 
Reading  poor  books  ma^^,  of  course,  be  strictly 
regarded  by  laborious  i)oople  as  a  way  of  easing 
off  a  mental  sti-ain.  I  have  a  friend  who  works 
very  hard,  and  who  finds  that  if  he  works  on 
until  he  goes  to  bed  he  cannot  sleep.  Bo  he  reads 
what  he  calls  "  garbage,"  a  novel  a  night,  and  he 
finishes  it  generally  within  an  hour;  but  that  is 
mere  unbending,  like  playing  patience. 

But  real  reading,  which  is  deliberately  putting 
oneself  in  contact  with  another  mind,  ought  to 
be  like  concentrated  talk.  A  writer  is  talking, 
and  he  is  missing  out  all  the  half-formed  and 
slipshod  sentences,  which  make  up  so  large  a  part 
of  ordinary  talk.  He  is  doing  his  best;  and  real 
reading  cannot  be  pure  recreation ;  it  must  mean 
a  certain  amount  of  observing  and  judging.  Our 
ancestors  used  to  think  that  all  well-conducted 
people  should  put  in  a  certain  amount  of  what 
was  called  solid  reading,  and  there  were  plenty 


458  Along  the  Road 

of  old-fashioned,  serious  households  where  novel- 
reading  in  the  morning  was  thought  to  be  dis- 
sipation. I  think  that  this  is  out  of  date,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  wholly  regret  it,  because  I 
am  not  certain  that  reading  is  of  any  use  unless 
you  care  about  it.  Solid  reading  was  history, 
biography,  science,  theology,  and  classical  litera- 
ture— and  the  odd  thing  was  that  Shakespeare 
was  solid  reading  and  Walter  Scott  was  not.  As 
to  reading  for  the  sake  of  general  information,  it 
all  depends  upon  what  use  you  are  going  to  make 
of  it.  If  3^ou  read  in  order  that  you  may  under- 
stand the  development  of  modern  problems,  or, 
better  still,  because  you  care  to  know  what  people 
were  like  in  times  past,  what  they  did  and  en- 
dured, and  why  they  did  it  or  endured  it,  it  is 
an  excellent  occupation.  But  if  you  read  because 
you  like  to  stock  your  mind,  like  a  warehouse, 
or  because  you  like  feeling  superior,  or  being 
thought  intellectual,  then  it  is  useless,  or  worse 
than  useless. 

And  of  all  fruitless  reading,  the  reading  of 
books  about  books  is  the  worst,  if  you  do  not 
go  on  to  read  the  books  themselves.  That  is  like 
reading  the  news  of  the  Stock  Exchange  if  you 
have  no  money,  or  reading  Bradshaw  if  you  are 
confined  permanently  to  your  bed.  T  do  not  mean 
that  I  desire  to  make  people  read  from  the  right 
motive  or  else  not  read  at  all,  because  one  has 
no  right  to  interfere  with  other  people^s  ways 
and  wishes.     But  I  do  not  think  it  right  that  it 


Reading  459 

Rhould  be  vaguely  supposed  that  there  is  anything 
dignified  or  useful  about  mere  reading,  or  that 
people  ought  to  be  ]»roud  of  doing  it,  any  more 
than  they  are  proud  of  eating  and  sleeping. 

The  ground,  too,  is  all  cumbered  with  foolish 
maxims  about  reading.  Hacon  said  that  reading 
made  a  full  man.  That  is  true  in  a  sense.  1 
know  some  people  who  are  unpleasantly  full, 
bulging  and  distorted  with  knowledge  undigested. 
But  what  Bacon  meant  was  a  well-stored,  un- 
encumbered mind,  which  can  reach  down  the 
knowledge  it  wants  from  the  right  shelf.  Then, 
again,  it  is  often  said  that  writers  have  no  bio- 
graphies but  their  own  works — and  that  is  pure 
nonsense.  Statesmen  and  generals  and  men  of 
science  have  often  no  biographies,  because  their 
work  was  done  in  the  world,  and  has  gone  into 
the  world.  But  writers  are  just  the  very  people 
about  whom  it  is  worth  reading,  if  one  loves  their 
books,  because  their  biographies  show  what  made 
them  think  as  they  did,  and  how  they  came  to 
cast  such  a  transfiguring  light  on  ordinary  things. 
Again,  I  have  often  heard  serious  men,  especially 
schoolmasters,  say  that  it  is  wrong  to  read  maga- 
zines, because  one  gets  only  snippets  of  know- 
ledge; but  that  is  not  only  what  most  people 
want,  but  exactly  what  they  get  out  of  bigger 
books  with  infinitely  more  trouble.  I  think  that 
the  miscellaneous  reading  in  modern  magazines, 
so  full  of  all  sorts  of  curious  and  interesting 
things,  is  the  very  way  to  open  people^s  minds 


460  Along  the  Road 

and  touch  their  imagination,  and  make  them  feel 
that  the  world  is  a  very  wide  and  exciting  place. 

I  do  not  wish  to  decry  the  real  intellectual  life. 
That  is  a  very  noble  thing,  lived  at  a  high  alti- 
tude and  in  rarified  air,  and  from  it  flow  many 
of  the  ideas  and  thoughts  that  make  life  worth 
living  for  the  next  generation.  But  for  ordinary 
minds  tlie  thing  is  to  think  clearly  about  simple 
things,  and  feel  generously  and  eagerly  about  life. 
A  great  deal  of  the  trouble  of  the  world  is  made 
by  well-meaning,  muddled  people,  men  and  women 
who  tamely  accept  and  preach  traditions  and  con- 
ventions, and  still  more  by  stupid  and  tyrannical 
people,  who  are  unsympathetic  and  unimagina- 
tive, and  bully  those  who  do  not  agree  with  them. 
What  one  wants  to  encourage  people  to  do  is  to 
live  eagerly  and  hopefully  in  the  thoughts  of 
noble-minded  men  of  genius — men,  let  us  say,  like 
Tennyson  and  Browning,  Carlyle  and  Buskin,  who 
lived  gallant  and  enthusiastic  lives,  and  saw  the 
sunrise  further  ofl'  than  duller  natures.  But  it 
is  useless  to  go  to  these  great  men  only  because 
it  is  the  correct  thing  to  do,  and  because  one 
feels  a  fool  if  one  does  not  know  about  Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra,  or  the  Stones  of  Venice.  Of  course, 
one  wants  people  to  care  about  such  things,  but 
one  does  not  want  them  to  care  for  ugly  reasons. 

There  is  nothing  in  which  dishonesty  or  pre- 
tentiousness punishes  itself  so  severely  as  it  does 
with  reading.  It  is  like  practising  religion  be- 
cause other  people  think  better  of  you  for  doing 


Reading  461 

so.  It  is  like  keeping?  the  manna  too  long,  like 
offering  money  for  the  tire  of  the  Spirit.  Instead 
of  hel]>ing  })eoj)le  to  be  wise  and  tolerant  and 
generous,  it  makes  them  despise  true  feeling  and 
beautiful  thought;  because  the  aim  of  life  is  to 
meet  it  with  a  noble  curiosity  and  a  courageous 
frankness.  It  does  not  need  an  intellectual  per- 
son to  do  that;  I  know  some  very  simple  people, 
who  never  oi)en  a  book,  who  yet  look  life  very 
straight  in  the  face,  mend  what  they  can,  help 
others  along,  and  do  their  best  to  get  rid  of  the 
ugly  giants  and  beasts  who  infest  the  path  of 
pilgrimage. 

And  thus,  as  I  say,  reading  can  be,  if  it  is  done 
simply  and  instinctively,  a  very  harmless  thing; 
and  if  it  is  done  eagerly  and  enthusiastically,  it 
can  be  a  very  fine  thing,  like  the  listening  to  the 
talk  of  great  j)ersons — not  overhearing  it,  but  hav- 
ing it  addressed  deliberately  to  oneself;  or  it  can 
be  a  very  feeble  and  even  pernicious  thing,  if  it 
is  done  ungenerously  and  for  ulterior  motives; 
because  the  dangerous  things  of  life  are  the  things 
that  make  us  self-satisfied  and  complacent,  and 
give  us  the  evil  right  of  thinking  contemptuously 
about  others.  But  of  course  one  ought  to  know 
something  of  the  glory  and  beauty  of  the  world 
about  us,  and  not  to  be  satisfied  with  our  own 
little  round  of  trivial  cares  and  interests.  There 
is  a  touching  story  of  a  man,  travelling  in  South 
America,  who  met  an  aged  Roman  Catholic  priest 
in  a  very  out-of-the-way  place.     He  entered  into 


462  Along  the  Road 

talk  with  the  old  man,  who  seemed  unfit  for 
rough  travel,  and  asked  him  what  he  was  doing. 
"  Oh,  just  seeing  the  world,"  said  the  priest,  witli 
a  tired  smile.  The  traveller  said,  "  Is  it  not 
rather  late  in  life  to  begin?  "  "  Well,  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  is,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  have  lived 
and  worked  all  my  life  in  a  very  quiet  little  place. 
A  year  ago  I  had  a  bad  illness,  and  knew  that  T 
should  die.  I  was  weary,  and  glad  to  go;  and 
I  am  afraid  I  was  proud  of  my  long  and  simple 
service.  While  I  was  thinking  thus,  I  saw 
someone  was  standing  by  me,  a  young  man  with 
a  strange  brightness  on  his  face;  and  then  I  saw 
it  was  an  angel.  He  said  to  me,  ^  W^hat  do  you 
expect?'  I  said:  ^I  am  waiting  upon  God,  and 
I  hope  that  because  I  have  served  Him  so  long 
He  will  show  me  the  glory  of  Paradise.^  The 
angel  did  not  smile,  but  looked  at  me  rather 
sternly,  and  then  said :  ^  No ;  you  have  taken  so 
little  trouble  to  see  the  glory  of  His  world  here 
that  you  must  not  expect  that  you  will  see  the 
glory  of  that  other  place.'  And  then  in  a  mo- 
ment he  was  gone,  and  all  my  pride  was  gone  too. 
I  got  well  from  that  moment;  and  then  I  gave 
up  my  work,  and  determined  that  I  would  spend 
the  little  money  I  had  saved  in  trying  to  see 
something  of  the  beauty  of  the  world;  and  I  am 
seeing  it,  and  I  find  it  beautiful  beyond  words." 


THE  END 


h/ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


KOV  jte  1947 

20Jan'6?H^ 

^j^f    i2  Ai»*o 

/48H^ 

ft' 

•7?<1ar49 

'^^  IIIIB20WB7  3 
JAN  13t9G7n 

8 

^1%^ 

mi4imu 

DEC -8 1982 

-r 

LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


'YC145887 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


